


Still Life

by empress9



Series: Impressions [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Cor Centric, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Young Cor Leonis, slight self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 70,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28020036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empress9/pseuds/empress9
Summary: “I’ve watched you take this weight your whole life, kid. You’re strong, I know. Everyone knows. It’s just… maybe you don’t have to take it all yourself. We’re here for you, Cor. Always.”Hmm.Alwayssounds like a damn long time. But he’s immortal, right?Cor reaches a bit of a breaking point. The pressure of being so young, being Regis's legacy, his past; it all catches up eventually.
Relationships: Clarus Amicitia & Cor Leonis, Cor Leonis & Regis Lucis Caelum
Series: Impressions [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997575
Comments: 132
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is another part of my Cor series :))
> 
> I'll be making a few references to my other stories (Clarus's wife is featured in my story In the Morning Rain)  
> But you don't have to read the others to follow this one
> 
> Enjoy!

The tie around his neck is like a noose, tight and vicious, and for once in his life Cor Leonis feels overdressed. 

He tugs on the thing, trying and failing to appear at ease.

The clap of a hand on his shoulder does little to help his façade; he nearly jumps out of his godsdamn skin.

“Steady, boy. You can at least pretend to be having a good time,” Clarus winks at him, arm draping Cor’s shoulder.

“Easy for you to say,” The younger man scoffs. “This is your crowd.”

“Yeah, right. Still don’t have to stand around like some lurker. I thought you and Scientia were friends, no?”

Cor stiffens. “He’s my tutor.”

“Ha! That’s right! He’s not a bad guy though. Why don’t you try to socialize a bit?”

“Me?” Cor knows he’s being stubborn. But being so out of his element leaves him feeling irritable. He tugs his tie again.

“You look good, kid, gotta say,” Clarus winks again. The bastard. He eyes Cor up and down, something like pride in his glance, and the younger man feels suddenly itchy. “Like what you did with your hair.”

“Thanks,” Cor mumbles, and swipes a hand through it. His hair had been getting a bit long, longer than he’s used to wearing it. He’d been meaning to get it cut for some time, just… too busy lately. For the evening, he’d tried styling it a bit, slicking it parted to the side, off his forehead. He felt a bit dumb for it before, but he’s glad now because he feels like he’s starting to sweat.

Damn party.

“Delphi’s lucky she has an excuse to get outta shit like this.” Cor says, trying to change the subject.

“Oh please. Even if she wasn’t due in four months, she’d still find a way out. Never liked parties much anyway. Like you, I guess.”

“Smart lady.” Cor’s secretly bummed that Clarus’s wife is absent. The two often bond over their mutual unsociability.

“Yeah, well. She’s got a lot to look forward to in the New Year.” Clarus grins, looking somewhat bashful.

“You too, big guy.” This time, Cor pats his hand across the older man’s shoulder. “Exciting stuff.”

“Everything’s changing. First Reggie gettin’ hitched. Now a baby. _Astrals_. You’re getting fucking old too, kid!”

“Thought I was immortal.” Cor deadpans.

“Ha! I forgot! Let’s get you a drink, yeah?” Clarus claps his back again, and Cor stands just a bit straighter. He lets the Shield guide him through the room.

Mingling into the guests of the small gathering, Cor feels his cheeks flush again at the sight of everyone else’s attire. Regis had said _party_. And for Cor that meant… you know, like fancy shit. He’d only had the one suit to begin with, for some formal gathering two years ago. Tonight he’d paired it with a black shirt, black tie. But seeing his host now, sprawled across a loveseat with his new wife, Cor mentally curses the bastard.

Regis has got on some kind of winter sweater, plain pants. All casual like. Not even wearing shoes. He perks up when Cor passes, smiling like an ass. “My, my. How dapper, my friend!”

“Shut it,” Cor grumbles as he tries to avoid contact. But Regis disengages from the couch, stands with hands on hips, all smug.

“What? I think you look quite handsome!” He probably means it too.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cor swats away the King’s hands as he tries to adjust his lapel. “Coulda told me this was more low-key…”

“Is anything ever low-key for me, darling?” Regis feigns disappointment. But he’s more guileless than he intends; his sweater probably costs more than Cor’s whole outfit.

“Why’d you make me come to this thing anyway?”

This time, the King looks openly disappointed. “Come now, Cor. You know I view you as one of my closest friends. It’s meant to be a small get-together, you know. People I care about. Plus I thought you’d need a bit of a… distraction. It’s been a rather difficult year, wouldn’t you say?”

Cor wouldn’t say himself, no. But the flecks of gray that had started popping up in Regis’s dark hair speak for themselves.

“I’ve been meaning to give you some time off anyway. I never really wished you a happy birthday, either. I’m sorry for that.”

“No need.”

“Hey, twenty-one is a big deal.” Regis nudges him.

“We telling people that, now?” Cor bristles, uncomfortable with talking about himself again.

“I’m afraid your age has been a hot topic of discussion as of late. But nothing for you to hide anymore. You have my back. Always.”

And that’s the crux of it all; that no matter how out of his element Cor may be, with Regis at his side, he feels… safe. 

The young man scans the room again, tracking as Clarus returns with two drinks in hand. There’s a small crowd of guests, thirty or so, all gathered in one of the King’s private lounges. A bit of a celebration to bring in the New Year.

Cor accepts the drink that Clarus thrusts into his hands. It smells strong, bitter, and he tentatively sips, grimacing. He’s not used to drinking. The Shield grins stupidly, slings his arm over the younger’s shoulders again. Cor thinks he might be buzzed already. A difficult year indeed.

“Doesn’t our boy look good?” The older man nudges Cor’s jaw with his finger, chuckling. “All grown up, I’d say.”

“Lay off, would’ya…” Cor bats his hand away. Feels his cheeks start to burn. 

“Very fetching, dear,” Regis smiles coyly. “And I daresay you pull that suit off most becomingly.”

“Yeah, well…” Cor just grumbles, blushes more. But he has to admit that with his shoulders so broad, he does fill out the jacket quite nicely. Getting older isn’t so bad, maybe. “I shoulda just wore my uniform.”

“Oh, definitely not! This is not a night for business after all!” Regis sways a bit.

“You really didn’t have to invite me,” Cor drags a sheepish hand up his face. 

“Hey now! I’ll have you know, we’re very proud of you Cor.” The younger man might be imagining it, but Regis’s voice sounds slurred too. And he gets a whiff of that Accordan shit he likes to drink, strong and sweet. The King leans in closer, whispering. “And I meant what I said, what we talked about. We’re all good to move forward with your promotion.”

“Thought that was a longshot.”

“Yes, well… I’m the bloody King aren’t I?” Yeah, definitely drunk.

“Reggie?” A sharp voice interrupts. Cor glances back to the loveseat, almost forgetting Aulea was there.

“Yes, darling!” Regis flops back onto the couch, nearly knocking the small glass from his wife’s hand. She squeaks in response.

“Oh, well, um… I was just wondering if Captain Leonis is acquainted with my dear friend Lucilla.” Aulea gives Cor a glance as she sips from her dainty glass. Ice blue eyes. “She works in the administrative department, wonderful girl. Her parents were commoners too.”

Cor does well to hide his wince; he knows Aulea doesn’t mean it. But still, he grits his teeth. “No I’ve not had the pleasure.”

There’s something about being here, behaving like this, out of his element, that makes Cor’s necktie seem to strangle him even more. The company, the party, Regis’s godsdamn sweater. The young man feels suddenly short of breath.

“Ah, well, I can introduce you if you like. Reggie says you don’t have much of a social circle. That’s a shame.”

This time Regis does wince. “Darling, I didn’t say that. Cor’s more of a… an _independent_ , if you will. Nothing wrong with that, eh?”

Clarus nods dumbly, raises his glass. Cor’s face burns hotter.

“I’d be happy to make your friend’s acquaintance, my Lady.” The young man hates how his voice sounds, but he does enough to cover his anxiety. He surveys the room again, just to have an excuse not to make eye-contact, hoping not to catch the attention of the woman in question. His social circle certainly doesn’t need expanding.

“Perfect!” The young Queen claps her hands as she places her drink on a side table. “I’ll be sure to arrange a meeting at some point. She works such long hours I’m afraid. But a lovely woman, nonetheless.”

Cor just blinks. That feeling rising in his throat burns stronger, nearly overtaking his breath again. Mortification. He has to make up some reason to leave, he needs some air, downs his drink in one go, peeling away from Clarus’s strong arms.

Of course. Aulea’s commoner friend wasn’t invited to an elite party like this. Cor has no idea what he’s doing here either.

He pulls on the damn tie, trying to get more air-flow. He’s starting to feel a bit dizzy. Suddenly jealous of Delphi, all knocked up at home, Cor starts to wrack his brain for an excuse to leave. He thinks he might be able to just slip out with no one noticing when someone touches his arm, and he nearly jolts.

“Leonis, a pleasure to see you here,” the slightly nasally tone of Linus Scientia. He appraises Cor through his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“Ah… hey.” As if Cor could feel any stupider. _Hey?_ Fucking hell…

The man is wearing a simple vest, glass in hand. Cor hasn’t had much reason to see Scientia outside of their… lessons, so it takes him back a bit.

“I was just musing with my colleague here about your situation,” Linus gestures to a man Cor has seen before but has no clue who he is. The stranger nods politely. Cor just blinks stupidly. “Tell me, are the rumors true?”

Cor has to cough a bit to clear his throat. He still sounds too scratchy. “I’m sorry, what’s that?”

“You know, the whole business with your birth certificate. Gaius here is convinced it must be fallacious, tell us, is there any merit to it?”

“Oh uh, yeah. I was born in 711.” Regis said there was no use hiding it. Still, the look on Linus’s face makes him almost regret saying it.

The stranger, Gaius or whatever, pipes up, “So does that mean you fought in the war when you were… what, _fourteen_?” He looks genuinely impressed.

Cor just shrugs. “I was twelve when I enlisted…”

Both men startle a bit. Linus looks at Cor more carefully, and the man feels his chest start to itch again. He scratches his fingers over the soft shirt, rubbing a spot on his side, an old scar maybe.

“I daresay, that is quite a scandal! You know people talk of King Mors’s desperation for troops, but this falls nothing short of cradle-robbing! What a sad case of negligence for your sake.”

“I mean… I’m not sorry for it.” Cor really doesn’t want to get into this now. His palms are sweating and the room is starting to look fuzzy. What was in his godsdamn drink?

“No, no, you misunderstand friend!” Linus is bold to call him a friend. But Clarus is right; he’s not a bad guy. Just a bit stuffy. “I call into question the impropriety of the administration. To enlist a child of your age is positively barbaric!”

“I was a good fighter.” Cor doesn’t know why he feels so defensive. Doesn’t know why it’s such a big deal.

Linus just gives him a look of slight pity. It makes Cor’s skin crawl even worse, and he’s more aggressive with his scratching now.

“Well I’ve heard a lot about you, Leonis, and it seems that most estimations carry truth. It’s no wonder King Regis keeps you close at hand,” Gaius nods at him. 

Cor will take that compliment, even though he’s still too restless to respond properly. “Thanks.”

“I daresay, Leonis, it’s quite refreshing to converse outside of, you know… tuition and such.” Linus says. “Perhaps you’d care to join Gaius and myself for a bit of recreational conviviality. We meet up with a group of friends every week or so, if you’d be inclined to partake?”

Cor’s just been standing there open-mouthed and sweating like a fool, so he kinda nods his head a bit, says “Ah, sure,” and doesn’t mean it, doesn’t know what to say really, doesn’t know what _conviviality_ means and he’s pretty sure Linus and everyone else here knows it. The guy’s his fucking tutor after all. Cor, twenty-one, having to get lessons on the side about proper etiquette, history, politics, because he never finished school, because he enlisted at twelve, because he was never meant to be in a place like this, but here he fucking is.

The room is spinning now, and Cor’s starting to think it’s from more than just the drink. He manages to share a glance with Clarus across the room, who gives him a perplexed look before turning back to converse with another stranger. Cor scratches his chest again, skin now feeling like fire.

“Say, Leonis?” The other man, Gaius, chimes in. “You wouldn’t happen to be in the position to authenticate another supposition for us? Let’s say a matter of… promotion, eh?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.” Cor feels his throat tighten, air not quite reaching his lungs.

“Oh, come lad! No need to be coy!” This Gaius is really starting to push his luck.

“Really its-“ Cor’s throat almost closes all together. He goes to sip from his glass before remembering it’s empty, so he just pretends and feels even more fucking pathetic.

Linus intercedes. “Well any bit of executive aggrandizement will surely come to light in the new year.” He raises his glass to Cor, who still has his empty one clutched in his sweaty palm.

“I daresay you’ll have your work cut out for you, Linus.” Gaius sips his drink as well. “Making sure the King’s new Marshal is rightfully up to his academic best, no? Why, you must be only twenty-one then, Leonis! And no noble relations? What a feat indeed!”

Cor has half a mind to just chuck his empty glass at the guy’s face, but he refrains. Just mumbles out a “yeah, uh…” and pretends to nod at someone from across the room.

“Um… if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen…” He doesn’t bother waiting for their response, just walks briskly through the crowd.

The man has no clue where he’s heading, but he’s almost worried his legs won’t be able to hold him up much longer. He’s _dizzy_. And the trouble he’s having with taking in air has little to do with his necktie.

Its panic, Cor realizes. He’s starting to panic. Right here in the middle of the King’s New Year’s gathering. The man had served in a war, faced countless dangerous encounters, but gods, he’s about to lose it at a fucking _party_.

Cor needs to find an escape. Fast.

He would just make an exit through the balcony doors, but he knows there’s Crownsguard posted on the other side, and he really doesn’t want any subordinates knowing he’s having a fucking breakdown. No. He’d just have to try to calm down. Maybe get another drink.

Someone cuts across his path and he almost counter-attacks just on blind instinct (maybe this is a warzone after all). The woman gives him an odd look, so Cor just bows slightly. Gods, his head is reeling. And to his further inconvenience, he sees Aulea making her way towards him.

He makes like he hasn’t noticed her, securing a route through the room, and finally he exits through the hall door, breaths coming in short pants. _What the hell is wrong with him?_ Cor leans against the hallway, hand clutching his chest, his heartbeat is going haywire. There’s that choking feeling all up and down his throat, and he fears he might be sick. The noise from the room reaches him still; he has to get away from it all, it’s too much. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. But there’s nowhere for him to go.

Cor thinks he hears someone coming this way, so he bolts. There’s a door in front of him, so he slams it open, shoves himself inside.

It’s a coat closet.

And with the sudden overpowering scent of various perfumes still lingering on the guest’s coats, Cor feels his throat close up, and he can’t breathe for real now.

The man stumbles to his knees, one hand grasping at his shirt, his ribs, the other pulling on someone’s coat, trying to steady himself so he doesn’t topple completely. He’s able to collapse into a sitting positon, knees brought close to his chest, and he hugs them with shaky arms. _He can’t breathe_.

It’s odd; the amount of times Cor’s been on the brink of death. This feels so similar. There’s a strangling in his throat, and he’s very aware of the size and shape of it, the tunnel that’s supposed to allow him to breathe, to live. It’s all closed up. The heavy, cruel twist of terror circles up his limbs, catches in his ribcage. He feels like screaming just to get some of it out. Instead, he just rocks back and forth, trying desperately to find air.

The necktie that’s been a noose all night- he rips it from his shoulders, throws it into the rack of coats. _He still can’t breathe_. He unfastens the first two buttons on his shirt, then the third, then the fourth and fifth. He brings his hand up to massage his chest, suddenly cold, but still so filled with panic. He’s itchy too. And his nails dig into skin, but find no relief. The other hand grasps at his hair, pulling, he’s freaking out. The man lets out a low whine, and hates himself for it.

 _What the fuck is wrong?_ Cor can’t tell. All he knows is that he’s sitting in Regis’s lounge closet, breaking down, about to pull off all his clothes cuz he’s too godsdamn itchy, he’s probably two seconds from passing out, he hates himself, and he can’t fucking breathe.

There’s a turn of the knob, and Cor nearly lets out that scream he’s been keeping in.

He knows what he must look like: crazy, rocking from side to side, huddled on the floor; there’s a track of tears down his face, and he’s making gasping noises. But it’s too late for him to try to hide now. He just shoves his head in his arms, so he doesn’t have to look whoever wandered in for their coat in the eyes. There goes his dignity.

What he doesn’t expect is hands on his shoulders, and the gentle pat on his head.

“Steady, boy. What’s going on?” That warm tone that had pulled him back from the brink before.

Cor doesn’t take his head out of his arms, but he tries to shape words around his strangled breathing. “Clarus… can’t… I can’t breathe...”

“Ok, ok. C’mere…” There’s a sturdy hand that slips to the back of his neck, rubbing softly. “Look at me, kid.”

Cor’s breath hitches, but he extricates from his arms, knowing he must have wide eyes, panic bleeding into his features. He grabs at his hair again, gasping.

“Hey! C’mon Cor, easy.”

Clarus stares at him with a disturbed look. Cor tries to focus on his eyes, brown and warm. But a spike of terror makes him shudder again, and he’s gasping in quick spurts. Hyperventilating. 

“C-can’t… I can’t-” He knocks his head back against the closet wall, legs flitting on the carpet. “H-help… I…I can’t breathe…”

“Shhh…” Clarus pulls him closer to his own face, the hand on the back of Cor’s neck an anchor. “You’re having a panic attack. Breathe with me, kid. Nice and slow. In and out.”

“Clar.. I can’t-”

“Shh. C’mon. In. Nice and slow. Relax your chest. C’mon Cor.”

Cor tries. He lets his shoulders drop, hadn’t realized how tense he was. Tries to expand his lungs a bit, and it works. He lets in a shaky breath, then another.

“That’s good. Keep breathing. In an out. Let it out slow. You’re ok.”

Cor doesn’t feel ok. No. Not when he’s having a fucking breakdown in the King’s closet. He shudders still, arms cradling his legs. Feeling lightheaded.

“Shhh. Easy, kid. I gotcha. Breathe with me. In. Out.”

The younger man moans a bit, more like a sob really. He’d kick himself over it later; right now, he’s still clutched in the throes of panic. But the breathing’s helping. And Clarus’s warm hand on the back of his neck might be the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“That’s it, kid. Just keep breathing. You’re ok.”

“Hmmng…”

“Hey, I gotcha. You wanna tell me what’s goin on?” Clarus brushes his thumb along the nape of Cor’s neck. “Aulea said she saw you leave, said you looked kinda spooked.”

Cor’s throat tightens again, and his breaths come out too quick. He’s slipping.

“Shit. Hey! Hey, look at me, kid.”

He doesn’t know why, but he can’t find the rhythm of breathing again. It’s all cut short as he tries to expand his chest. Cor struggles, straining against Clarus’s hold, tugging on his shirt again, scratching, scratching, he wants to get rid of his skin, he wants to take the eyes of him, cold blue… all the people looking at him… he wants to fucking leave this place… he wants-

“Cor! _Calm down_.” It’s so sharp, he stops mid-scratch. Two warm hands pull at his own, dragging them from his now red chest. “Hey. C’mon. _Look at me_. C’mon, Cor.”

Cor looks. Clarus brings their joined hands and holds them against his own chest. His eyes meet Cor’s and he nods slightly. “Look at me. Breathe like me. C’mon now.”

Clarus coaches Cor through it. The younger man matches the tempo of breathing, in and out, slow, slow, eyes trained on the Shield’s, and they both settle into something like calm. Eventually Clarus moves his hands back to the base of Cor’s neck, rubbing circles in the hair and the younger man closes his eyes, still focused on the flow of air to his lungs.

“That’s it. Keep breathing.”

“M’sorry…” Cor mumbles, eyes still closed.

“Shh. Don’t worry kid. You’re ok.”

“Don’t know what’s wrong… I’m sorry…”

The fingers move along his scalp, calming, safe. “Shhh. Just keep breathing. Nice and long.”

Cor does. He breathes. Nice and long. Long enough for him to start to feel cold, shirt mostly unbuttoned. He opens his eyes to start fiddling with it, but his hands are still shaky.

“Here, let me...” The younger man lets Clarus fix up his buttons for him. He doesn’t miss the way the Shield’s eyes linger over his exposed chest, the scratch marks lining up with scars they both know are there. But he doesn’t say anything.

Cor sits back, hands raking into his hair, and he slumps forward, breaths now coming in easy.

“And your hair was looking so nice. Sheesh!” There’s a hint of a smile in Clarus’s voice. Cor doesn’t even need to look up to feel it.

“Yeah, well…” Cor grabs a fistful of it, bringing his palms into his eyes. Wiping away the moisture.

After a beat… “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really…”

“Ok.”

Cor watches through his fingers how Clarus rocks back on his heels. They’re pretty crammed in the small closet, but Cor doesn’t mind that they’re so close.

“Don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me…”

“Did someone say something to you?” Clarus keeps his voice nice and low. “I saw you talking with Scientia, did he bother you?”

“Nah… I just…” Cor sighs. “I don’t know. It’s nothing.”

“You can talk to me kid. You know that?”

“Of course. I just… I don’t know man…”

“You don’t have to know. It’s ok. You’re ok.”

Cor nods, scrapes his hand up his hair and nestles his head against the wall.

“Don’t… tell Regis.” Cor doesn’t know why that’s his first concern, but it is. He doesn’t want to spoil the King’s evening because he can’t fucking calm himself down.

“He’s been worried about you.”

“I know… I mean, he shouldn’t. I’m fine. Ok? No need to get him involved.” As if he wasn’t sat up in the man’s closet, at the man’s party. But Regis didn’t need to sully himself with Cor’s bullshit. Doesn’t need more gray hairs sprouting up.

“I’m worried about you too…” Clarus does his best to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah well… don’t be, alright? I can take care of myself. Been doing it a long time too.”

And maybe that’s all he’d ever need. The ability to take care of himself. He’s a soldier, a good one. He shouldn’t be running off into coat closets, falling apart like this. _What the fuck is wrong with him?_

“I’ve watched you take this weight your whole life, kid. You’re strong, I know. Everyone knows. It’s just… maybe you don’t have to take it all yourself. We’re here for you, Cor. Always.”

Hmm. _Always_ sounds like a damn long time. But he’s immortal, right?

Cor sits back. Breathes. Nice and long. He cracks an eye open to his friend.

“You’re gonna be a good father.”

Clarus snorts.

“I mean it.” Cor says. “You’ve got this… quality. I don’t know how you always stay so calm…”

“Calm?! You think I’m calm? I was freaking out here! Thought you were fucking dying or something! Sheesh!”

“I’m not dying.”

“Not on my fucking watch….astrals…”

Cor chuckles lightly, runs his hands through his hair again.

“Here let me fix this up. Gods, you’re a fucking mess. _Calm_ … yeah you fucking wish I was calm…”

The younger man lets the Shield sort his hair back into some semblance of decency. Cor smirks at him as Clarus pretends to put effort into it. “There we go. Looking sharp, kid.”

“Yeah…” Cor tries not to sound so wistful, but can’t help it. “You’re gonna be a good father.”

“If you say so,” Clarus grumbles, but Cor hears that smile again. “Now let’s get the hell outta here, alright? I think Lady Delinum douses her whole wardrobe in that fucking godawful perfume and I don’t wanna smell like old lady if I don’t have to… sheesh.”

“Why do you think I couldn’t breathe?”

“Ha!” Clarus gets to his feet offering out a hand.

Cor still feels a bit shaky, but he takes the hand, his friend’s hand, and he walks out of the closet with maybe the slightest bit of his dignity left.

“Don’t tell Regis, promise?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m… I’m really ok. Don’t know what happened, really. Just got a bit worked up.”

“You’ve got a lot riding on you, kid. I’d be worried if you weren’t at least a little bit frazzled. Just try to take it easy, ok?”

“I’ll try.” And he will. At least for a bit.

“I got a pretty good closet back in my house, though. If you ever need it.” Clarus grins.

“Eh… crying baby in a few months… reckon you’ll be needing it more than me.”

“Hey, now! What happened to me being good father?”

Cor splays his hands out, but he’s got a smile too. “Whatever keeps you calm…”

The two don’t head back to the party right away. In fact Cor never makes it back in. But he doesn’t mind. His social circle is just fine the way it is.


	2. Chapter 2

Cor has an apartment that he hates. Its fine by him; he usually sleeps in his office anyways. Only now, with his promise to Clarus to _take it easy_ , he’d been taking to spending his nights at home.

It’s January and his heat is busted. There’s a draft from one of the windows (the damn thing doesn’t shut properly), and there’s only a suspicious looking head of lettuce and a bottle of ketchup in the fridge. Yeah. He hates this place.

But it’s his. And that’s why he keeps it. When Regis had offered him housing in the Citadel, Cor turned him down in favor of a monetary compromise (he’d had better uses for the money than himself, after all). The apartment was a bit of a struggle for the King to concede (the neighborhood’s not great, and yeah, the shitty room speaks for itself), but Cor had insisted he didn’t mind. And he doesn’t. Not really. He just wishes the offer to fix his radiator had been acted upon, but the offerer had gone and left him in the dust, so to speak.

But it’s fine; Cor doesn’t like staying in the Citadel too long anyway; the air is different there. Sometimes it’s nice to be reminded of what life was like, before.

So now- he’s got a large blanket wrapped around him as he scours his kitchen. There’s really no meal to be made from the contents of the fridge, so he figures he’ll grab something in the Citadel. The circus act of him trying to get his uniform on while still enveloped in the blanket would surely be amusing to any onlookers, but Cor keeps his shades pulled, always. With his recent notoriety in the papers, he’s been extra careful about keeping a low profile. Cor doesn’t think anyone would expect he’s living in a shithole down on Lacuna Drive, so yeah, he really doesn’t mind living here. Plus it’s six in the morning. No one to bother him yet.

The man stumbles into his pants, zipping them up and thrusting his feet into the solid boots (lately he’s taken to wearing two, sometimes three, pairs of socks. He leaves the extra pair on now, just because).

Cor’s a little sorry to drop the blanket, but he knows he’ll heat his car up real quick (a final compromise on Regis’s part; but Cor’ll take the car. In fact it’s probably his favorite possession).

Approximately three extra seconds to check himself in the mirror (his hair really is getting too long, he needs to get it cut…) and Cor grabs his keys and heads for the door.

The other good thing about living in such a shitty complex is that no one really pays him any mind. The few interactions he’d had with neighbors had been fairly monosyllabic, a wave here or there. None of the ‘ _I daresay, Leonis!’_ bullshit that makes his skin crawl. 

Which is why Cor’s a bit surprised to hear a commotion up ahead; most tenants weren’t up and about this early.

Shoving his keys in his pocket, and adjusting the collar of his uniform coat, Cor thinks he’ll just try to pass by the source of disturbance with little interaction. But walking up, he realizes it’s the Blazek family. Lenore Blazek, a kind-hearted elderly woman, had always taken the time to be sweet to Cor (even though he’s sure he’s done nothing to deserve it). The man slows his pace, carefully.

The noise is coming from a kid, Lenore’s granddaughter, Cor thinks. From this distance, he can tell she probably thinks she’s being quiet, but still, the tinny voice carries down the hall.

“But gramma, I’ll be late now! And the green-line bus still won’t be here for another hour an’ a half!”

“Shh, child. There’s nothing to be done now.”

“But gramma!”

Cor inches forward, now feeling like an intruder. He’ll probably just try to gently walk past.

The girl’s voice raises though. “I told Cynthia I’d bring her our project for homeroom, now I’m gonna be late an’ she’s gonna hate me for it! _Gramma!_ ”

The old woman, Lenore, tries to hush the child again. They’re standing outside their apartment, near the exit to the stairs. Looking around, the woman spots Cor, and she nods a bit bashfully, before turning back to her granddaughter.

By this point, Cor just resigns himself to contact and approaches the two (they’re blocking the hall, as it is).

“Morning,” he supplies, offhandedly. 

“Ah, Mr. Leonis. Good morning to you too!” The elderly woman smiles brightly, if not a bit ashamedly. “Sorry for the commotion. I hope we haven’t bothered you.”

“It’s no worry.” He might as well leave it at that, be on his way. But the woman had offered him kindness, especially when he’d first moved in, only nineteen at the time. “Is there… a problem? Anything I can help with?”

“It’s a small matter, dear. Nothing to trouble you over. Just my granddaughter here’s gone and missed the bus-”

“It’s not a small matter, gramma!” Cor nearly startles as the girl pipes up. “They canceled the Palinum bus to this neighborhood! Now I gotta wake up extra early for the red-line, even though school don’t start til seven-thirty! I’m gonna miss all my first classes, might as well just not go altogether!”

“Hush now!” Lenore places her hands on her granddaughter’s shoulders, trying to placate her. “Agnes is just a little miffed is all. But we’ll get her on the next bus when it comes.”

Cor just stands there awkwardly.

The girl, Agnes, kicks her shoe against the wall, scowling. She looks young, ten maybe. With crossed arms and bright red curly hair. “Stupid bastards…”

“Agnes! _Language!_ ”

The girl flashes an angry glare. Something about it reminds Cor of himself (gods, he was a little shit back then too, wasn’t he). 

Dragging a hand up his hair, Cor sighs. “Well… uh… I can give you a lift if you’d like. Palinum’s on the way.”

At that, the girl shifts, eyes wide. She detaches from her grandmother, latching onto Cor’s coat, staring up at him like he’s some kind of god. “Really, mister?! You’ll take me?”

“Now, now, Agnes,” her grandmother says. “Mr. Leonis has important business to attend, I’m sure. There’s really no need, son. Thank you kindly for the offer.”

“But gramma!” Agness whines, tugging on Cor’s uniform. He squirms, uncomfortable.

“Really, I…” Cor kind of takes a step back from the child, regretting everything. “I don’t mind. The school’s close. I’ll get you there quicker than the bus.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you mister!” Agnes does a silly little victory pose.

“Really, dear. You shouldn’t trouble yourself for us.” Lenore places a warm hand on Cor’s arm.

“Eh, it’s no big deal.” He turns to the girl, who’s still wiggling about excitedly. “You ever take a drive in a Crown City car, kid?”

If it were possible, the girl’s eyes widen even more. “Whaaa? Really?! So cool! Vivian Astoria’s gonna be so jealous!”

Cor just shakes his head, chuckling slightly.

“Thank you, dear.” Lenore smiles. “I owe you big! Maybe I’ll drop by with some of my homemade banana bread. And if you’re ever runnin’ short on anything, just give us a holler down the hall.”

“Ok… uh, thanks.” Cor’s mind goes to the lettuce and ketchup in his fridge, blushing. He ruffles his hair again. “You ready, kid? Car’s in the garage.”

“Sweet!” Agnes punches the air, striking another ridiculous pose (Cor hopes he wasn’t that embarrassing at her age, but he knows better).

The two part from the elderly woman and make their way to the underground parking lot, two floors down. The girl, Agnes, keeps shooting Cor odd glances, twiddling her thumbs about, humming slightly.

Cor scratches the back of his head, not really sure what he’d just got himself into.

“Fancy, huh?” He clicks the keys of his car and the object in question lights up, sleek black, barely a scratch.

Agnes rushes towards the car, hands on her cheeks. “Whaaa… so cool! Is this a car like the King drives?”

“Not quite that fancy,” Cor concedes, opening the passenger door for the kid. “But King Regis actually had this picked out for me.”

“No way!” Agnes situates herself in the seat, mouth open as she surveys the interior.

Cor climbs into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirror, then pulls out smoothly (he really does love this car).

For the first few minutes of the drive, the two keep to relative silence. Cor comes to the realization that, gods, he really hadn’t spoken to anyone younger than him in some time. But Agnes is somewhat intimidating; what did preteen girls even talk about anyway? The man wracks his brain trying to come up with a suitable topic for a solid five minutes.

Turns out he didn’t need to; the girl turns to look at him, a curious gleam in her eyes. “Are you famous?”

“Famous?” Cor snorts. “That depends.”

“Gramma said you were all important or something. Said she saw them talkin’ ‘bout you on the tv.”

The man huffs lightly. “Just because someone’s on tv doesn’t mean they’re famous.”

“But you just said yourself you know the King. And gramma’s always talking ‘bout you like you’re real important. Said you were… im…immoral or somethin’. Said it means you couldn’t die.”

Gods, his nickname would be the death of him (irony aside). “Yeah, well. I can definitely die.”

“Well that sucks!” Agnes sounds comically disappointed. The corners of Cor’s mouth twitch into a half-smirk.

“What’s your favorite subject in school?” The topic of discussion Cor’d spent five minutes ruminating.

Agnes gives an angry grunt. “School sucks too! The only reason I go’s cuz gramma makes me. Waste a’ time if you ask me.”

Cor laughs again, turning the car onto the freeway. “If you’d asked me back then, I would’ve said the same.”

Agnes perks up. “Really? You hated school too, Mr. Leonis?”

He nods. “Oh yeah. In fact I quit when I was twelve.”

“Whaaa?! But I’ll be twelve next year! That means I can quit too! Sweet!”

Beginning to regret his influence on this susceptible youth, Cor tries to change tactics “Easy there. If you quit school, you have to be prepared to do hard work somewhere else.”

“Ah, damn.” She deflates in her seat. “So what’d you do then? Work for the King right away?”

“In a way.” Cor says, eyes still on the morning traffic (but caught up in a rush of memories too). “I was a soldier. A good one.”

“Ah, that’s right! Gramma was sayin’ you was fightin’ the Nifs an’ stuff! Pretty cool if you ask me!”

And Cor would’ve thought the same, back then. But he knows better. “It’s not as heroic as some would have you believe. War is… well… war’s shit, really.”

Agnes snickers at the bad word, but her eyes are still curious.

Coming up to a stoplight, a manic idea has Cor impulsively reaching for his pant leg.

“Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, kid. Being a solder, especially at my age, was hard work. I told you I could die, remember. Sometimes you get real close.”

With that, he pulls up the material to reveal his kneecap. The scar had been itching lately, so it’s slightly red now. A raised, dark line, four inches along the side of his knee.

“Holy-” Agnes stares, openmouthed, inching closer. “How’d you go an’ get that, Mr. Leonis?”

“By being stupid.” A real truth, that. “And maybe if I’d gone and stayed in school, I wouldn’t have turned out so reckless.”

The man shoves down the pants (Agnes hadn’t seen the exit wound on the other side; the path of a sword, impaled through his kneecap), shudders, and puts the car into drive again.

Agnes sits back in her chair, looking a bit traumatized. “I don’t think I wanna be a soldier.”

“That’s your choice then.”

The silence resumes. Cor takes the time to take stock of the scenery. He’d had to bypass his normal route to get to the girl’s school, deeper into the city. Passing by a building, Cor follows it with his eyes. Familiar terrain.

Finally, when he passes another, he chuckles. “That was my school. When I was your age.”

(He could’ve been standing outside; the boy with shitty shoes and a patched up coat, the boy with everything to prove but nothing to do it with, the boy who held a sword in general training and liked it so much he never let go, who liked it so much he up and quit school, who carried that sword and that weight until the tides of war crashed into him, broke his hands, broke his childhood, the boy who lied about his age and got away with it. Until now.)

Agnes twists a bit, craning her head against the window to get a better look. “You went to Jejun Public?”

Her incredulous tone confirms the school’s reputation. “Yeah. Seems like a lifetime ago.”

“Aw man, a guy like you went to Jejun?! I gotta tell my friend Cynthia.” Agnes begins chattering at a rapid pace. “See we was supposed to play Jejun in the inter-school tournament, only word was some kid was gonna bring a knife or somethin’ and ruined the whole thing! Cynthia says it was that new kid, Marko Ruja, he’s from Ga… Galahd or whatever. Anyways, she says he was braggin’ ‘bout some kinda weapon from his home island, but I don’t know if he really had it. Just tryna prove he’s cool or somethin’. Still couldn’t play in the tournament which sucked!”

Cor listens with half his mind on the road.

“I don’t think Marko’s such a bad guy though. I gave him some of my pudding one day, and then he let me share his chips! Gramma says to be nice to him, cuz she said his whole family live in one of those shoe-box tents under the overpass…”

Cor doesn’t know when, but he realizes he’s starting to enjoy the company. Not that he has to contribute much, but sometimes it’s nice to just listen. So what if he has no clue who the hell any of these people are? (if you asked him, this Marko might’ve looked a little something like himself; always something to prove, gods, he knows what that’s like). 

By the time they reach the school, Cor’s pretty sure Agnes’s rants will be enough to distract him for a long while (he’ll be sure to let Clarus know he’s taking it easy).

He parks the car along the sidewalk of the school, gives Agnes a hesitant smile. “Sorry you’re gonna be so early.”

“It’s cool. Sometimes if you’re early, they let you hang out in the cafeteria and you get free lemonade!”

“Well. Alright, then.” The man nods, a bit bashfully.

“Thanks Mr. Leonis.”

“Cor.”

“Huh?” Agnes looks up, confused, as she unfastens her seatbelt. 

“My name. You can call me Cor.”

“Cor. Huh. You got one of those old-timey names.”

The man chuckles lightly, trying not to think about the reason he was given the name. “I suppose.”

“Some’a those kids from Galahd are called names like that. Cynthia says it’s to fit in and stuff, but I told her only the King and people all royal-like use those kinda weird names.”

“Guess I’m just weird then.” Cor sits back, relatively content.

“Nah. You’re pretty cool.” Agnes wiggles in the seat a bit, fingers on the door handle. “Thanks Mr. Cor! Your car was super awesome!”

“Any time kid.” 

She smiles widely before exiting the car. Gives a big wave, and Cor returns it. He watches her strike another silly pose before dashing into the school.

Cor reverses the car, drives away. Back to the Citadel. Away from the memories (his history in run-down pavement, in awkward adolescence, gods he hopes he wasn’t that weird…).

After he parks, he sits in his car a long time, really noticing the silence for the first time. He leans his head against the steering wheel for another minute, bracing for the day’s work (it never used to be this hard, did it?), idly scratching his kneecap again.

He goes through the motions. Morning drills, advanced sword training, paperwork, then more paperwork. It’s not until well into the afternoon that he realizes he’d never grabbed something to eat.

Cor’s halfway through a dozen submission forms when there’s a knock on his office door. He just raises a hand, doesn’t look up from the papers.

“Sheesh, kid. They made a real salaryman out of you after all.”

Cor sees Clarus leaning against the door, arms crossed, and scoffs. “You wonder why I prefer to be on assignment.”

“Yeah, Yeah. I thought we were taking it easy, right?”

“I have been.” For once, Cor feels sincere in his answer.

“Good.” Clarus moves over to the desk. “Got something to show you. Thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

He slaps a newspaper down on top of Cor’s paperwork. The man scoffs again. “Astrals’ sakes… where’d they find this picture?”

“Ha! Must’ve pulled it from the archive. Don’t worry, Regis is looking into it,” Clarus leans over his shoulder, looking at the article. “That’s your enlistment photo, yeah?”

“Must be.” Cor pulls the paper closer, scrutinizing the picture of the boy, himself. “Hell, was I really that fucking small?”

Clarus laughs. “Haha, little pipsqueak! But fuck if any of the older recruits wanted to get on your bad side. You were practically feral back then!”

“Yeah well,” Cor sits back. “If you’da told me then all it would lead to was fucking paperwork, I might’ve found another outlet for all that pent-up rage. Sheesh!”

“All for the Crown, Captain Leonis.” Clarus does a mocking bow, and Cor takes a swipe at him. “Better get back to work, boy. Your country needs you.”

Cor gives him a half-hearted wave as the Shield exists his office. The man sits back in his chair, still, breathing slowly. He goes to shove the newspaper aside to get back to work, but something draws him to look at it still. Fucking hell. He’d wish the press would just get off his case.

The headline alludes to something about secrets revealed, insights into the past exploitation of one of the King’s closest officers. Ever since the truth about his fudged papers, the ‘clerical’ error they blamed it on, came to light, Cor’s been featured heavily in all of Lucis’s top tabloids. Truthfully, he can’t wait for the whole thing to blow over. It’s really no big deal, after all. So what if he’d lied about his age. He still fought well, still survived.

He looks at the picture now, frowning.

The boy of twelve, dressed in a crownsguard uniform several sizes too big- he’s got a heavy scowl (probably something that corroborated his falsified age; Cor’d thought looking angrier meant he looked older). Blue eyes sharp under mousy brown hair. Tiny. A kid. Gods, is that what he looked like?

Suddenly, Cor’s glad he hadn’t eaten. An unexpected nausea consumes him and he leans back in his chair again, uneasy.

It had never bothered him before, his age. He was able-bodied, willing to serve. A soldier. But now- looking at the photograph of a boy with too much to prove, he’s struck by it. Cor feels sick to his stomach. And suddenly, he can’t help but conjure up an image of Agnes, the young and silly child- he pictures her wielding a sword bigger than herself, standing on the frontlines, crying and shaking, running into battle, covered in blood, hers and others, for what, gods, for what purpose? (All for the Crown…right?)

Cor rushes to the bathroom in the back of his office and throws up in the sink. He shudders, arms braced on the cool tile, head bowed, breathing in and out, like Clarus told him to. It’s a little too hard to focus now, though. The scratching - he can’t quite stop himself from raking his nails through his pant leg, up the side of his knee, then the inside, the exit wound. He whimpers pathetically into the sink.

The image of him, the things he’d seen (things he’ll never forget), get all mixed up in his head with Agnes, and the stories of her friends, kids, children (the kids he saw in Galahd, oh gods, their bodies were small, so fucking small, oh gods…) he was a child too right? Will they look at Marko Ruja and see the same things they saw in him? That his hands are just large enough to grip a sword, to carry a weight that just keeps pushing (even still), a kid with nothing, _nothing_ , but everything to prove? Is that what they saw when they snapped the picture of a twelve year old soldier? They didn’t even tell him to smile (how could he have, though?).

Cor stays in the bathroom a long time.

But it’s enough for him to get an idea.

Later, he passes by Regis’s office at the end of the day. Places his proposal on the King’s desk with a bit of fervor.

“What’s this?” Regis doesn’t look up at him either.

“Consider it a favor.”

The King glances at it, then at Cor, curious. “What? Feeling suddenly charitable?”

“Hey, they’d be sitting in the garage, getting no use as it is. Just… don’t make a big deal of it alright?”

“Alright then.” And that’s that.

“Regis.” Cor takes a pause as he’s leaving the office. “Try to take it easy, ok?”

“I shall certainly try.” He’s already back to focusing on his work, probably didn’t even notice Cor leaving.

The man nods, and makes his way to his car. Tries not to think about that kid in the picture, the kid outside of Jejun Public, scowling, always scowling.

But later- tomorrow when the shiny new Crown City bus comes to Lacuna Drive, a donation from the King to the humble folks at Palinum Middle School, Cor will smile, because for once, he hadn’t minded filling out all the paperwork.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for a bit of graphic imagery in the first part **

There’s the siren again. Loud, constant, Cor can’t shape thoughts that don’t include the single piercing note of it.

It’s one of those dreams that he’s aware he’s dreaming. Still doesn’t help.

Cor, the Cor in the dream at least, moves through an empty Citadel. He knows he should be making noise, he’s running, running faster, but still- the sound of an all-encompassing warning bell overpowers his footsteps.

He’s starting to panic (this is what it feels like, he thinks. No, he _knows_.). The growing noise- Cor starts to realize that the sound is coming from inside his chest, droning out through his ribcage- he can feel the vibration amplifying.

He runs still; it’s all he can do. 

There’s a turn up ahead, and Cor knows it leads to Regis’s quarters. It’s empty. All empty. The siren inside him intensifies. _He has to find it_. What, he doesn’t know. But the alarm is telling him to go, faster, go go go… he wants to scream, but can’t. He feels the noise guide him. Every corridor, every doorway empty; the siren screams at him. Go. _Faster_.

Suddenly, the wall in front of Cor collapses. He feels his heart stutter, the siren blazing in his ears, in his heart. But there are other sounds now, _finally_. The man pushes through the rubble, searching, searching. _This is what you want, right?_ The rocks move, they make noise as Cor shifts them. He cuts his palm on a sharp edge, but he keeps pushing them aside, one by one. There’s sounds on the other side. He doesn’t know what yet, only that it’s different from the siren. An interruption. Cor reaches for it.

He falls through the broken wall, and then-

_Gods_.

Sounds in his ears, biting, scraping into his very soul.

 _Screams_. A thousand. Maybe more.

Cor feels wet soil, feels the hot sun melting up his back even though his eyes are shut (even though he’s dreaming), and he knows where he is and he doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t want to hear the screams but even if he covers his ears- they’re there, _inside him_ , every crack, every entrance to his body, every scar.

The man pushes his face into the dirt and screams (well, tries to, but nothing comes out, his voice might as well sound like a siren too) _no no no no no nonononono…._

He feels the first hand reach for his ankle and it makes his heart jolt, the alarm now ringing out in one single, great and terrible sound. Cor is shaking his head in the dirt, no no no no no _please_.

Another hand grabs his wrist, tiny fingers pull at his clothes, his uniform. They’re in his hair, they’re pulling at his eyelids, at his teeth, reaching inside.

He knows he’s dreaming. And maybe that makes it worse. Because he knows that there’s a way out. But he’s stuck (and he’s been here before).

Cor screams even though it’s pointless. He screams as the hands tear at his skin, fingers biting into his scar tissue, itchy, itchy. He scratches too, starts pushing away those tiny hands to scrape his fingernails along his own flesh.

All the while the siren asks _did you find it, can you find it?_

If whatever _it_ is is buried under flesh and skin and bone, Cor will find it. (Every time it’s the same, but Cor can’t help it.)

The man pulls his jacket off, rips his shirt off, nails now like claws digging at his skin. He peels a layer of it back, the muscles of his abdomen revealed as he stretches the flesh off, snapping, squelching. There’s blood pooling and tiny mouths lap at it. _Don’t look_ , _don’t don’t don’t…_

(He will, he always does. It’s the way out, after all.)

Cor rips his muscles aside, screaming. His fingers wrap around bone and he pulls.

_Is this what you wanted?_

The mouths bite at his flesh as he pushes it aside. Cor is crying, but the tears fall red from his face. One of the mouths licks it, up the side of his face and it holds him with its fingers. _Tiny…tiny. Don’t look_. _Please don’t look._

Cor looks.

The child is dead. It looks at the man, the soldier, who’s now pulling his body apart, with empty eyes. And through its open mouth, the siren calls.

And Cor screams as he snaps his pelvis in half with bare hands and he screams when the child holds the bone in its small, dead hands and holds it out to him _is this what you wanted_ and he screams there on the jungle floor of Galahd as he slips his own fingers into his torso searching searching scratching scratching and-

He screams when he wakes up.

Cor scrambles upwards, gasping, still making terrible noises, clutching his chest _oh gods oh gods…_

His hands grope his upper body, snake under the shirt. His skin is intact. The man leans forward, sobbing.

_Oh gods, oh gods…please._

The pulsing of his heartbeat is wickedly fast, making Cor feel the thing might just explode. He punches at his chest, moaning low, willing it to slow down. He still can’t catch his breath, wild panting doing nothing to calm his nerves. The man clenches a fistful of hair, rocking back and forth on the mattress, then slams his head into the wall on accident. He leaves it there though, his head against the wall. Something about the cool texture on his wet face grounds him.

 _Wet, dripping blood, tiny tongues lapping it up_ \- Cor scrubs at his face, furiously. No, no. _You’re ok now, you’re ok._

But he’s not. Cor’s got himself wrapped up in three blankets, shaking on the bed he’d shoved into the corner of his studio apartment, with his face pressed against the cold brick, and the tears keep coming and he keeps scrubbing them away. _He’s not ok_.

Cor grabs the oversized sweatshirt he’d thrown on the edge of the bed. Warm, with that comforting, familiar smell. A gift from a long time ago. When he was _tiny, tiny with tiny hands_ … No. _Stop_.

He throws the thing over his shoulders, shuddering violently, reaching for the extra pair of socks on the floor. He’s up to four pairs now, but they wrap around his feet and he likes the feeling. He feels a little bit… safer. Cor breathes in slow. In and out, Like Clarus said. He’s shaking still. And cold.

There’s a small space heater he’d stolen from his office at the Citadel. The man reaches for it now, not getting out of bed, not removing the blankets. He shoves his upper torso forward, arms outstretched to pull it from where he’d left it by the couch. Clicking it into the warmest setting, Cor sits back on his bed, pulling the blankets closer around his form. He really ought to get that radiator fixed.

The warmth from the heater eases off the last of his shaking. He’s able to sit in relative peace for a bit (if actively _not thinking_ about something is peace). But the part of him that never shuts up keeps reminding him to check the time.

He does; it’s two-thirty. Typical. There’s no way in hell Cor’s getting any sleep now, so the man just resigns himself to spending the next few hours before work wrapped in his little cocoon.

But something keeps nagging him; he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts (or lack thereof). A wild idea has him thinking he should call someone (gods, who would he call at two am? Fucking rude if you asked him).

He doesn’t call anyone, but he scrolls through his contact list, as if that’s enough to remind him that yes, these people exist. And a good portion of them would answer if he called, even at this time.

What Cor does instead is get up from his bed (cocoon still maintained), and plops himself on the sofa he rarely uses and flips on the tv which he also rarely uses.

He drags the space heater so that it’s right in front of him, in front of his bulky-socked feet as he scrunches them up on the sofa seat, under his lap. He sinks his face further into the sweatshirt.

Cor’s distraction comes in the form of Insomnia’s finest two am tv lineup. That is to say, the man finds himself unexpectedly invested in some cheap soap opera, Sleepless Dreamers, and yeah, it sucks bad, but at least he doesn’t have to think.

Somewhere along the fourth episode he’s watched, the one where the chamberlain of the young Lord is revealed to be his sworn rival from his youth, Cor realizes he’d been scratching again.

He’s noticed lately that his fingers just move of their own accord. Usually a pattern of sorts. Like now- how he’s inching up his chest, nails scraping along the outline of a particularly nasty scar (another from the blademaster). Then along that knife wound he’d picked up in Niflheim. He only registers he’s doing it when his finger snags on one of the scabs (he’d been getting a bit of a rash) and starts stinging.

Cor looks down at his fingertips, covered in a small amount of blood. He lifts up the sweatshirt, and the t-shirt underneath; it sticks to his skin a bit, but he can see his red angry flesh and suddenly he feels stupid.

He hadn’t known how long he’d been scratching, but his nasty habit had done a number on his skin. He twists his fingers, locking and crushing them against each other, anxious. Lately, he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. They always end up somewhere, seeking old scar tissue. Scratching. He brings one down to his knee before he can really help himself.

He tries to force himself to take the hand away, but it tightens, resisting. His short nails grate against his pajama pants, biting up the length of his scar. He should stop; he knows that he should stop. But he doesn’t.

So Cor sits there on his couch, watching shitty tv, and commits to his bad habit, the little ritual that’s becoming harder and harder to battle. _He can stop if he wants to_ ; that’s what he tells himself. It’s only something to do with his hands. Besides, his mind is already occupied with the ensuing drama of the miraculous return of Lord Antonio’s step-sister who had been presumed dead for eight years, so he’s really not even thinking about the scratching.

Cor doesn’t know how long he watches the dumb soap. But it’s long enough that he finally shakes his dream. And is able to start getting ready for work.

It’s around five thirty that he starts pulling his uniform on. He really doesn’t want to lose the sweatshirt, he knows he’s being silly, but the thing is like a shield of sorts. So he tugs it back over his uniform dress shirt, telling himself he’ll take it off just before he goes.

He heads to the bathroom. Doesn’t bother switching on the light to do his business. But he catches a glimpse of his reflection from the fire-alarm light that glows from the hall. Shit. He looks tired. And he is. Feeling bold, he turns the light on and he winces as it nearly blinds him. He squints at his face in the mirror.

Cor’s hair is a wreck. Not even just the length (too long; _need to get it cut, he knows, he knows_ ), its tossed in all directions from where he’d grabbed at it in his manic freak-out. He can only salvage it by wetting his whole head, which he does, and then he’s left looking like an angry drenched dog. The dark shadows under his eyes don’t help.

It’s never his favorite thing, taking care of appearances. Cor doesn’t like his face; well, not in the sense that he’s not satisfied with it, he looks ok, really. It’s just that it doesn’t… _show_ enough…maybe. He thinks he ought to look older than he is. But he doesn’t. He still looks… young. Something about that feels like a sham (he could be that boy in the picture still, twelve, scowling). A part of him wishes that, hell, maybe some of his scars should be on his face (he’d never get away with his scratching then, though). It just doesn’t sit right that he looks so untouched. Maybe he should grow a beard or something.

Cor blinks. Blue eyes comply.

He really needs a haircut, dammit.

The man returns through the kitchen, a small smile defying his temperament at the sight of the banana bread on his counter. He’s glad he hadn’t eaten it all in one sitting.

He grabs some now, brings it over to the coffee table as he prepares to get his boots on (maybe four socks is too many) and hopefully finish watching enough of the episode to find out if Celeste is really Antonio’s birth mother after all.

His cell phone rings.

Shoving his foot in, not even checking the name as he picks the phone up, he grunts, “Leonis.”

“Something told me you weren’t a morning person…” There’s a familiar chuckle on the other end.

“Ah, Delphi,” Cor adjusts his boots, sitting back on the sofa. “How’ve you been?” The man suddenly feels guilty; he hadn’t checked in on his old friend in some time.

“You know…” Delphinium sighs. “As well as can be expected. At this point I’m ready to just take a knife to my belly, get this thing over with.”

“I don’t think that’s recommended.”

“You’re probably right. Oh well. You good kid? It’s been awhile. Clarus says you’ve been… hmm, let’s say _distracted,_ lately.”

“Distracted’s accurate,” Especially now, with half his mind focused on Sleepless Dreamers playing in the background. “You should tell him not to worry though.”

“Tell me about it!” Cor can practically see her exasperation. He smirks. “That’s pretty much why I’m calling. Say, you don’t happen to like kiwis, do you?”

That makes him look up from the tv. “Kiwis? Like… the fruit?”

“Yeah, yeah. _Kiwis!_ You like em, huh?” There’s almost a frantic edge to Delphinium's words.

“Sure, Del. The fuzzy brown things, right?” Cor’s confusion now has little to do with the increasingly ridiculous soap and more about tropical fruit. “Why’re you asking me about kiwis?”

“My husband read an article.” She says it as if that’s enough for an explanation.

“An article… about… _kiwis_ …?” Cor shoves a piece of banana bread in his mouth, brow furrowed. He doesn’t think even a morning person could make sense of this conversation.

“Oh you know, _guess which foods will help boost your health during pregnancy_ bullshit. So yeah. It’s kiwis, apparently. Cor,” at this point, her voice shifts, sounding even more frantic. “Do you know how many cartons of kiwis are in this house as we speak? _Twenty-nine._ Twenty-nine cartons of godsdamned kiwis. You have to help me!” 

Cor nearly chokes on the food in his mouth as he chuckles. “Fuck’s sake, Delphi. Yeah, fine, I’ll come take some kiwis.”

“Thank you boy!”

“No need for dramatics.” As he says it, there’s a gunshot from the tv in the background, and Cor flips his eyes just in time to see Celeste, gun in hand, standing over the body of Antonio “…Well, shit.”

“Cor? What is that?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, just the tv…” He stares at the screen, open-mouthed, groping for another piece of banana bread.

“Cor… are you watching shitty soap-operas instead of getting ready for work?” There’s a giggle from the other end.

“Hey, lay off,” Cor smiles nonetheless. “I’ve been distracted, remember?”

“You sure you’re ok?” There’s humor in it, but Cor can sense the actual worry in her tone.

“Yeah, just, couldn’t sleep much.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Now you sound like Clarus.”

“I know, I know. But I just want to know if there’s anything wrong, you know? Anything bothering you...”

“Nah, I just… have a lot going on I guess…” Cor feels an unexpected lump in his throat that has nothing to do with the bread.

“My husband may worry too much, but kiwis aside- he really does mean well. I don’t know what’s been going on with you kid, but Clarus seems concerned, so… you know, that means me too. You know you can talk to me about anything? Gods know I need the distraction too.”

Cor pushes down the tightness in his throat. “You really didn’t call to ask me about kiwis then?”

A laugh. But then serious again. “Hell, kid. I know what you’ve been through. Just making sure that brat I met all those years ago is still keeping it up.”

“Delphi I-” A sudden flash- the hot sun on his back, the hands, the screams. “I… uh. That time in Galahd, your home, I-“

He struggles. Maybe thirty seconds pass, but she doesn’t push.

“I… I still don’t… know… what to say about it. Maybe… one day, I’ll find the words.”

“That’s ok, Cor,” Delphi says. “I’m here for you. Whenever you feel like it, yeah? It can be about anything. Even dumb soap operas.”

He laughs “Ok.”

The man leans back, not quite contented, but still. He’s missed Delphi.

“I know I’m all fat and emotional and all, but anytime you want some company, let me know, alright? Hell knows those stuffy bastards up at the Citadel can only be tolerated for so long. You can help me in the garden if you like.”

“Yeah. I’ll swing by at some point.” He smiles. “For the kiwis too.”

“Bless you, kid.”

By the time Cor hangs up the phone, he’s stopped caring about the stupid show on the tv (it’s just as well; turns out Antonio faked his death to escape to Accordo or some shit). But talking with Delphi had eased him a bit. She’s bold and honest in a way that Citadel folk aren’t. Plus, their overlapping past means that Cor doesn’t have to explain himself to her. Doesn’t have to give her reasons why he spaces out every few minutes. Reasons why he stopped talking for twelve days after finding those bodies in the jungle.

He scratches his chest again.

Cor’s halfway to the Citadel before he realizes he never took off the sweatshirt.

There’s a training seminar in the morning, and the man’s not looking forward to it. A bunch of noble-born brats who’d trade coin for skill if it were possible (it isn’t; the punk kid from Jejun knows that).

Lately, Cor seems to blink in an out of the present. Like now- he barely registered parking his car, now he’s in the training room (had he gone to his office? He doesn’t remember…). He’s about to pour some cold water on his face in the locker room, wake himself up a bit (gods, he’s still tired), when he hears voices. People talking about him.

“And King Regis wants him for Marshal? Here I was hoping the man would be a better judge of convention than his father.”

“I know! And Leonis is younger than I am! Has Regis already gone as senile as his old man?”

Hushed snickers. Cor leans against the wall, angry, fingers aching to start clawing at his skin.

“And do you know what I heard? He has to get lessons! Tutoring on the side because, get this, the man didn’t even finish middle school! That’s what you get for giving destitute city-rats handouts. I bet he’s practically illiterate! Regis must view him as a pet project!”

More laughter. At this point, Cor doesn’t even care what they’re saying. He’s heard it all before. And yeah, it’s mostly true. He just wishes they would stop spewing shit about their King.

“But have you heard the latest bit? About Leonis’s mother?”

That makes Cor pause. A wrench in his chest leaves him suddenly short of breath. He scratches his side.

“Apparently the woman is a raving lunatic! She should be locked up in an asylum, but word is, Leonis has her sitting to rot in a nice posh Citadel apartment. I heard she can’t even recognize the man!”

“Imagine that! Well living in Jejun would be sure to make anyone loony. Probably a whore too, no doubt-”

Cor shoves from the wall, back into the training room. He’s heard enough. His life isn't some dumb soap opera. He doesn’t need to make a scene. Doesn’t need to look at their faces, see who was talking about him. It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter. He rips his hands away from his itchy chest and tells himself to believe that they’re not shaking. _It doesn’t matter._

Cor’s like that: he hates making a scene. Hates drawing any more attention to himself than necessary. With all eyes on him as the new recruits take orders, he shoves it all aside. His reputation as a hard-ass is cultivated; he doesn’t take shit from anyone, doesn’t let anything get under his skin (his skin; it itches, it burns… _ignore it… it’s fine_ ). But even still, it’s clear that today he’s extra merciless.

Twenty rounds of intensive drills, followed by an exhaustive weapons exercise. Then laps. Then more laps.

By the time they get to one-on-ones, two trainees have already collapsed unconscious, and a large handful look near to follow.

But Cor doesn’t care. 

He’s got the body of a young recruit pinned under his ruthless hold and he won’t let up just to make him feel better.

“Again.”

“But sir, I-”

“ _Again_.” Cor won’t hear it. Not when there’s blood ringing in his ears, vision obscured by fervor.

The kid tries his hardest, but he’s tired, they’re all tired, and Cor can’t help but make a demonstration of him as he slams him down to the floor, his technique falling apart against Cor’s steady hold.

He stands up, shaking his head. “Another ten laps.”

Stifled groans fill the air. One bold trainee exclaims “But Captain!”

There’s a heavy silence as Cor slowly tilts his head, not even making eye contact with the brat (does it matter?...they’re all the same). “ _Fifty_.”

This time, the groans aren’t subdued. Some of the kids dawdle, while others begrudgingly start their laps, giving those who protested angry glances. The one Cor just pinned to the mat approaches and the man’s already adding a mental tally of how many more laps he’ll make him do when the kid asks, “Did I hit you sir?”

“Huh?” Cor squints his eyes at him.

“I... uh… you’re bleeding…” the kid stammers. “Are you hurt?”

Cor looks down. His training top has its usual collection of sweat, but up along the side of his ribs, there’s a trail of crimson.

The cadet paces nervously in front of his Captain.

Abandoning caution, Cor lifts his shirt up and there’s a heavy intake of breath from the trainee in front of him, not to mention the looks from those still starting their laps.

The crusted over scabs that litter the scar tissue on his chest let out a slow trickle of blood. Cor rubs a finger over one that’s bleeding more heavily than the rest. He looks the cadet in the eyes. “No, you didn’t hit me.”

The kid stares, tense.

“You don’t get marks like these on the training room floor. But if you don’t start giving me seventy laps, we can certainly try and find out.”

“Y-yes, sir!” Gods, the kid looks actually scared. Cor chuckles a little as he practically flies away from him in a dead sprint.

Arms crossed, the man paces the room, before heading over to the far wall. He leans his back against it, breathing slow (in, out, in out, _come on, you know the drill_ ). He wishes he hadn’t shown his weakness, given them some more shit to talk about. But too late now. And really. He doesn’t fucking care.

He doesn’t realize he’d slipped into sleep until he’s startled from his dream by the finishing bell (his dream- a melodramatic re-telling of the incident in the locker room, where Cor revealed himself to the two miscreants and one was secretly Regis in disguise and then Cor’s mom showed up and confessed to being the King’s secret lover, so yeah, he was a little sorry to not find out how that one ended).

He sees some of the cadets giving him dirty looks. Good. Let them hate him. Hate is a stronger motivator than anything (gods know why Cor’s always scowling).

He packs up his stuff, presumably heads back to his office (he isn’t quite sure; he’s been losing track of things lately).

The next thing he knows is he’s in his car, driving through a familiar neighborhood in the Citadel district. He walks through the back gate, the garden entrance and he knows he’ll find Delphi there even before he sees her, sprawled in a lounge chair, pregnant belly wrapped up in blankets.

“Hey,” he says, waves, then throws himself onto the grass, back cold against the chilly ground. But he doesn't mind. He's got his sweatshirt on again.

“Rough day?” Delphi waddles over to him. She’s wearing a puffy white coat that just lends more to the impression of a bloated polar bear. She plops down next to him.

“Mmmnn…” he breathes nice and slow. The January air is icy cold, but it burns in his throat and he lets it fill his lungs. “Del… gotta tell you something.”

“Anything, kid,” she promises. “You know I’m here for you.”

“I don’t actually like kiwis.”

She’s still for a few seconds, but she turns her face towards his, eyes shut in silent laughter. “Me either!”

Cor laughs too. Shoves his head into the cold grass, savoring the cold. And he laughs. Subtly. But it feels good.

“Wanna help me bury them in the garden?” Delphi’s got a wicked gleam in her smile.

“Can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”

And maybe, hands covered in dark, cold soil, Cor has a few other things he’d like to bury too. But they’d take a bit more time, he thinks. For now, he's just glad he has something to do with his hands. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Cor, darling, there’s no need to be standing around like some self-important guard, please, won’t you have a seat?”

“It’s my job, My Lord.”

Regis barely contains his exasperation. “Oh, please! I insist. And none of this _My Lord_ nonsense, I’ve told you. There’s no need for formalities, dear. Now relax, why don’t you?”

Cor begrudgingly takes a seat on the sofa next to him, arms still crossed. “Happy?”

“Only if you’d stop all that scowling. Astrals, it’s like you’re still twelve!” Regis smirks at him over his cup of tea, then gets back to focusing on the paperwork in front of him.

Cor does his best to remain nonchalant, but it’s hard; what with Regis fussing at his side and Aulea delicately seated across from them reading a magazine. The man has to physically force himself to keep his hands from scratching by keeping them crossed.

Aulea peers up at him. _Great_. His skin is practically burning already.

“Captain Leonis.” _No need for formalities_ , yeah, sure. “There’s an article about you in this week’s issue.”

His insides twist, and Cor’s pretty sure his discomfort is written all over his face. Still, he returns her exchange. “I’m sure there are more interesting things for My Lady to be reading instead.”

Aulea giggles, batting a hand. “Oh, please, you’re such a mystery Captain. I’m sure there’s some sagacious findings to be gleaned if I continue.”

Cor doesn’t hate Aulea. Really. But, gods, the way she gives him that look, the one right now- making eye-contact every time she uses a big fancy word to see his reaction- yeah, it makes him want to rip his skin off.

He just nods politely.

“Say, you’re not seeing anyone Captain?” Astrals fucking almighty, this really might be Cor’s worst nightmare.

The man has to choke down the mortification burning in his throat before replying. “I- uh… no, My Lady.”

Regis snorts at his side. “Now you’re in for it.”

“I can set you up with a few acquaintances if you like. I know multiple suitors who might be interested. Let’s see…”

“My Lady-” it takes nearly all of his willpower to keep from barging out through the doors right now, but Cor just holds up a hand, hoping that will stop her. “I must insist… I’m really not interested in anything like that-”

“Oh, but why not?” She actually looks disappointed, mouth turned in a dumb little pout. “I mean, Reggie says you barely get out at all. What’s stopping you? I mean you’re in a respectable position, you’re handsome… really, I have quite a few friends who would jump at the opportunity!”

“I- I’m not into that kinda thing…”

By this point, Cor’s teetering on the very edge of the couch, knuckles clenched against his uniform coat. But luckily, Regis comes to his aid. The King doesn’t even glance up from his paperwork. “Aulea, darling, leave the boy alone. I told you, he likes keeping to himself.”

“I just find it anomalous…” That look again, Cor wants to run. “You’ve told me you’ve been worried about him, Reggie…”

At that, the King does look up, all embarrassed. “Honey, would you please be respectful. Cor’s far too busy to be attracted to that kind of lifestyle anyway.” He turns to the man in question, face red, whispering under a quick breath “Don’t mind her...”

Cor lets his shoulders sag, just a tiny bit. But he doesn’t move from his position on the couch. Aulea pouts again, tucks into her magazine once more, but the man still feels her gaze.

There’s a bit of a reprieve as a servant brings over a tray of breakfast foods. Not feeling even slightly hungry, Cor just sits silently, restless. Regis turns to him again, ruffling papers, looking for any excuse to talk about something else. “Say, you didn’t happen to serve with a Travelis did you? I’ve got a meeting with a counselor with the name, sounded familiar.”

“Victor Travelis, yeah, he was in my unit.” Cor nods, remembering. “Yeah, poor bastard got his leg caught on the side of a Nif tank, swiped him right under. I swear we could hear his bones crack as the thing just fucking dragged him across the battlefield. Found him after, head was all bashed in. Like a watermelon.”

Cor doesn’t know what makes him say it, what makes him relish the details. Maybe it’s the way he makes eye-contact with Aulea, to see her reaction. The brunch platter with its succulent fruit display remains untouched for the remainder.

“Oh, uh… yes. That’s right…” Regis is left once again as the awkward interloper. “Well anyway, I wanted to remind you about the meeting on Monday. The council may seem at odds, but trust me, this will all go in our favor.”

As if he didn’t have enough on his plate already- Cor hadn’t forgotten about the meeting, the one where Regis will affirm his promotion status. It’s been bad enough with the press on his tail but Cor knows more than one member of the council who’d be looking into his reactions to more than just fancy words. His fingers flex, desperate to scratch. _Not now_.

“I trust you. If this is what you really think is best.”

“Of course it is! I have my utmost faith in you Cor. You know that.” And he does. And that’s what makes it all harder. Cor makes himself smile at Regis despite his growing anxiety, despite the way he can’t help but linger over the touches of gray in his hair, the lines on his forehead that may not have been there a week ago. _I won’t let you down…_

“Captain Leonis, is it true that you were born in a metro train in downtown Insomnia?”

Cor has to blink a few times, shaken.

Aulea sits, piercing into him, waiting for his reply.

“I… uh… yeah.”

Sharp blue eyes scrutinizing from over her magazine, the young Queen does little to hide her apparent astonishment. “My word! How positively…outlandish!”

Heartbeat picking up, Cor hopes he doesn’t look as flustered as he feels. _He didn’t know anyone knew about that… besides-_

“You never told me that.” Regis nudges his side.

“It must have been barbaric for your poor mother, oh dear!” Aulea flips through to the next page of the article.

“I… uh…” Cor has to cough into his arm, but can’t quite clear his throat. “My mom didn’t know I’d be coming so early, I guess. She was on her way to work…”

The young Queen taps the paper, “See, I knew I’d find something interesting about you.”

“It’s hardly interesting…” Cor fiddles with his uniform button, nerves buzzing.

“How is your mother, by the way?” the King asks quietly. “I know it’s been some time that we’ve really talked. I hope you’re visiting regularly.”

“I… I actually haven’t been to see her in a while. Busy, you know…” Cor snakes a hand up to the base of his neck, looking down uneasily.

“Well, come now! I thought we’d arranged a day for you to take some time off each week.”

“Yeah, yeah, I just… I have a lot of stuff to get through… didn’t want to leave you like that-”

“Nonsense! It was Monday mornings, wasn’t it? There’s no reason for you not to visit this Monday then, right before the council meeting, eh?”

“I suppose then…” Cor sighs.

“Excellent!” Regis claps his hands then winks at Aulea. “Now, darling! Let’s say we start work on the guest list for the next charity banquet. Gods know it’s a better hobby for you than playing matchmaker for this one.”

Cor’s grateful for him. His friend. His King. More than he has words for (with Regis, the big fancy words have no real meaning anyway). He sits a silent vigil as the couple plan their party, despite the fact that he’s still shook up. He doesn’t know why the bit of gossip about him in the magazine bothers him so much. But it does. Almost more than the guilt that’s been chewing him up inside at the thought of seeing his mother. It really had been too long. Since before his birthday, he thinks.

He goes about his day with a sense of half-awareness; gods, he really ought to start focusing better. But often, he finds himself at the end of the day without having really lived it (the paperwork, his routine, it’s like he’s on auto-drive).

So when Monday comes around, Cor finds himself halfway through his morning ritual before realizing he doesn’t need to head to work right away. He flops onto the couch, boots half on. _Huh_.

The man doesn’t remember the last time he took some personal time off (to be fair, he wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway). The guilty storm that’s been brewing in his gut over seeing his mother makes him slightly nauseous. Maybe it’s a good thing he’d eaten all the banana bread.

As it’s early, too early to see his mom yet, Cor takes some time to sort through his clothes. Casual wear is not something he dons often. In his dresser he finds a few sweaters, plain t-shirts, a collection of things he knows won’t fit him anymore. There’s a worn pair of dark jeans in the bottom drawer- his only pair of pants besides training ones. He slides them on, relieved to find they still fit. Mostly. He shrugs on a black sweater, runs his hands up the sides of it. It’s soft. And he likes the way he can pull the neck up over his head if he wants to. To hide.

Cor doesn’t like visiting his mom dressed in his uniform. It feels wrong. And it’s probably best that he keeps a low profile anyway- a number of reporters had been attempting to harass him, especially outside the Citadel. He takes a black cap from where he’d thrown it on top of the dresser and puts it on. Yeah, a perfect disguise.

The only other outer-wear Cor has besides his uniform coat is a tattered denim jacket- the one he’d been wearing when he first moved in, given to him by his mom a long time ago. He knows it’s not warm enough for the January chill, but fuck it. It still kinda has that scent of what his mom’s house used to smell like. He holds his body, wrapped in the jacket, breathes long and slow, curses himself for not having any other shoes besides his standard boots, but whatever; he’ll be changing back into his uniform on the way back, anyway.

Cor grabs his keys after downing a glass of milk, spares just another few seconds to acknowledge the anxiety buzzing under his skin, and leaves.

As he’s locking his door, he stops short, almost forgetting.

On the door under the apartment number is a sticky note, pink and eye-catching. _Agnes_.

Cor’s young friend had started a tradition- each day before school she’d somehow slip down the hall and slap a note on his door. Today’s reads: _Mr. Cor, yesterday I saw a dog at the park! Do you like dogs????!!_

A genuine smile breaks his features, and Cor has to fish out his keys, grabs his own sticky note, before heading out down the hall. He pauses at the Blazek’s apartment, sticks the paper to the wall and writes: _who doesn’t like dogs?_ Then he spends about a minute drawing a stupid looking dog face, tongue sticking out. He leans back to survey it. Yeah, it’s shitty. But Agnes will like it.

He feels just a tiny bit less anxious now, he thinks, as he walks down to his car.

Deciding that showing up empty-handed might make him feel pathetic, Cor adjusts his route to stop at a bakery. He remembers his mom saying she liked the raisin-cranberry muffins there (even though Cor’d rather have the plain ones). An echo of a memory shudders through him- _you better be grateful for what you got, ain’t no point in bein’ picky when you’re that skinny …_ He ends up buying a dozen, constantly adjusting his cap (the woman at the till keeps eyeing him, like she’s recognized him, but maybe he’s just being paranoid). Or maybe he’s just stalling for time now. He hadn’t realized, but he’d been sitting in his car for about seven minutes outside the bakery. _Gods, get it together…_

The apartment he’d bought for his mother is nice. A grand, old building overlooking Insomnia’s west side. He’d set her up on the ninth floor, a double apartment so that the live-in nurses had a place to themselves. Cor takes just another few seconds in his car, pulls the turtleneck over his face completely for a few seconds, hiding, hiding, then gets out.

It’s only as he’s ringing the bell that he realizes he should’ve called beforehand. Cor’s not even sure which nurses are on rotation anymore, so he stands there clutching the bag of muffins, feeling stupider by the second.

It’s a young woman that answers the door, Cor can’t remember her name. He fumbles with the bag, open-mouthed and pitiful. “Uh… hey. Sorry, I should’ve said I was coming… uh…”

“Mr. Leonis, what a pleasant surprise!” The nurse smiles cheerfully, beckoning him inside. He doesn’t know why he feels so out of place; he bought this apartment for fuck’s sake.

Cor enters, nodding a bit at the young woman, then hugs his coat closer to his body; gods, he hadn’t realized how cold he was. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself and he’s beginning to regret even coming in the first place. The nurse (Lynn? Maybe…?) smiles at him still and Cor has half a mind to just leave the muffins and bolt.

“We weren’t expecting a visit, Mr. Leonis, but I’m sure this will cheer Ms. Esther right up. She’s been feeling a little… down this morning.”

Cor doesn’t need her to elaborate. The fact that it wasn’t his mother to open the door should’ve clued him in. He runs a hand up the back of his neck, suddenly wary. “I, uh… I haven’t been able to stop by as much as I’d like, you know… work and all. Is she… doing ok?”

“She has her good days and bad days, as you’ll know. I’m sure seeing you will boost her spirits, even if she doesn’t…” The nurse struggles to find the most appropriate way of simplifying his mother’s condition.

Cor just holds up the bag, awkwardly. “I brought muffins.”

“Well, you can leave those with me then, and head on in to see her if you like.” The nurse smiles again, almost coyly. Cor feels his skin prickle so he just makes his way over to the bedroom.

Outside the door, he pauses, breathes in slow, then knocks. He doesn’t wait for a response from the other side, just enters, taking in the picture of his mother, lying in bed, a soft noise coming from the television on the wall.

“Lydia, I don’t-” His mother starts to say before she looks over and sees him. Cor can’t quite read her expression.

“Hey, ma.” He stands with his back against the door, hands in his pockets, waiting. “Sorry I, uh… didn’t call.”

She blinks, and Cor’s already running through the scenarios in his head, which version of himself he’d have to be that day, when she smiles, beams at him really, and makes to get out of the bed.

“Oh, well if it isn’t my son! Here I thought Cor Leonis was too important to be visitin’ little old me.”

“You don’t have to get up,” Cor ushers forward as his mother tries to extricate herself from the blankets. He places a hand on her shoulder. “Really, ma. The nurse said you weren’t feeling that great. You stay comfortable.” Taking the sheets from her hands, he arranges them nicely around her form, tucking around the edges. He doesn’t let himself acknowledge that tiny burst of relief. _It might not last, remember?_

“My, what a gentlemen!” His mother stops one of his hands in place, rests hers against it. “But don’t you know not to wear hats indoors, sheesh, I thought they was teaching you manners up at the Citadel.”

Cor grumbles as he pulls the dumb cap from his head. Fiddles with his too-long hair nervously.

“Let me look at you.” He feels a warm hand on his cheek, brushing along his jaw. Something makes him pause, makes him not want to look up at her, into her eyes. There’s an itch burning under his skin. But he looks up anyway.

Esther Leonis had lived a hard life. Cor sees it in her weary gaze, her weathered hands, her hard-lined face. She was never a great beauty, never had much going for her really. Cor has to choke down some kind of emotion every time he sees her, but he’s not quite sure what it is.

“My son. So handsome.”

He snorts, leaning into the touch. He still can’t force himself to focus on her, his mother. Instead he looks at her hair; there’s a piece escaping her messy bun. He brings a hand up to tuck it behind her ear. (Sometimes it’s worse, he thinks; when he looks into her eyes and he knows that she sees _him_. Makes it harder for the times she doesn’t).

“Sorry I haven’t been by in a while.” Cor pulls back from her, swiping a hand up his head again, and settling it at the back of his neck. He grabs the chair by his mother’s bedside, sits on the edge of it, keeping somewhat of a distance.

“It’s alright, boy. I know you got lots going on. Bein’ so important and all.” She’s being unusually playful.

“Not that important, ma.” Cor just keeps rubbing a hand down his neck, maybe so he doesn’t use it to start scratching.

“Don’t be humble, now. I been seein’ what they’re saying on the news.”

“Ahhck, don’t pay attention to that shit…”

“Hey now!” She sarcastically wags a finger. “What happened to all your fancy manners?”

“You haven’t had anyone botherin’ you about that, have you? No reporters askin’ questions?” Cor knows his mother rarely leaves her comfortable apartment, but still. There was that bit of gossip about him in that magazine… he doesn’t know why it still bothers him…

“No, no. Don’t you be worried ‘bout me now, son,” she says. “Wouldn’t know what to tell no reporters anyway.”

“Yeah, I know I’m really not that interesting, ma.” Cor shakes his head, smiling in spite of himself, fiddling with her blankets again.

“Stop that, boy.” She swats his hand lightly. “You know what… I think I got some beads for you to fiddle with instead.” He watches her lean over to the drawer, pulling out a string of shiny black beads. “Here you go. I know you’re always twitching and stuff, need to keep your hands busy.”

Cor doesn’t question his mother’s weird habits, they’re almost as bad as his own. But he didn’t think she still used prayer beads. He holds them in his hand, rubs a finger along a smooth black ball. “Thanks.”

“I used to have such a nice pair, all shiny blue. A gift from…my husband. Gods, whatever happened to those?”

There’s a lump in his throat that Cor has to work around before answering. “Yeah, I lost those, remember?”

Esther pauses, a little too long. Then nods. “Oh yeah, that’s right. Dumb of me to lend them to you in the first place.”

Cor just shakes his head, but that feeling doesn’t go away.

His mother perks up, pointing at the tv. “Ah, damn. You’re making me miss my show.”

Glancing at the screen, Cor immediately hates himself for recognizing the characters on the show. He buries his head in his hands, amused, but groaning. “You watch this shit, ma?”

“What? This is some good television, boy!” Esther edges up along the bedframe, eyes focused on the soap opera. “Look, see here… that’s Melinda, she’s a real piece of work that one! She’s got some sorta plot brewin’, tryna take over the business of Martina…”

Cor lets himself be filled in on the ever-ridiculous plot of Sleepless Dreamers. But somehow, hearing his mom’s commentary makes it even more entertaining.

“And then… get this, the Duke gets run over by a wild chocobo! In fuckin’ downtown Insomnia! Who woulda seen that coming? Not me!”

At some point, the nurse comes in to check on them, and Cor remembers the muffins he’d bought for his mother. He follows the woman to the kitchen, fumbles around trying to find plates.

“They’re in the top cabinet, Mr. Leonis.”

“Ah… thanks.” Cor hates the way he feels like such an outsider.

“No problem.” He also hates the way the nurse keeps eyeing him.

He grabs a few muffins and arranges them on a plate, sorts through the cabinet looking for napkins. The nurse stands, watching him.

“Is it true what they’re saying? That the King plans to make you the new Marshal?”

Suppressing an impolite groan, Cor doesn’t look at her as he replies, “I’m not really supposed to say.”

He hears her chuckle. “I understand. But my, what an honor! You’re very young.”

“Yeah.” He succeeds in finding the napkins, standing there awkwardly.

“It must be difficult for you. Balancing all those responsibilities. Plus having your mother to worry about…”

This time, he can’t really contain his discomfort. “I manage.”

“Ms. Esther loves you, I’m sure you know. Even when her behavior gets… unpredictable. Some days we can take her out, if she’s feeling up to it. But a lot of the time, she can’t really leave the apartment.” 

“Is she… uh, is she still having… you know… any episodes…?” He knows he ought to ask, but it still kindles that emotion, the one he can’t quite name. He scratches at his chest, as if that would help.

“She… she’s had a few rough turns these past few weeks. Sometimes her sense of reality shifts, as you know. ” The nurse smiles, but it doesn’t make Cor feel better. “I think seeing you has helped. I’m actually surprised she’s… ah, recognized you this time. It’s been so long.”

The burning under his skin flares. “I… yeah… I mean, I haven’t been able to… you know… get some time off-”

“Oh, don’t think I’m trying to make you feel guilty, Mr. Leonis!” _Gods, why would he think that?_

Cor just stands there, back against the counter, trying desperately not to make eye-contact. The nurse, Lydia, keeps staring, moving closer.

“I’m just saying that it’s so nice to have you around again. I think Ms. Esther has missed you. We all have.” With that, she places a hand on Cor’s arm.

The reaction is immediate, not enough time for Cor to censor himself. He jolts back, out of her grasp, smacking his back on the cabinet.

“Oh, I-” Lydia looks startled, hand to her mouth.

“Sorry… uh…” Cor feels his face burn and it carries all the way down to his chest. He scratches without caution. “I’ll just… I’ll take this in… excuse me…”

Entering the bedroom again, Cor hears his mother talking still, “…and then the secretary turned out to be a Nif spy…”, but he’s still so shook up that it doesn’t register that she hadn’t even realized he’d left.

“Got you some of those muffins you like,” He places a plate on her bedside table, hand still rubbing against his now-insufferable sweater. “Raisin and cranberry.”

“Oh, thank you. You know my son hates those kind, he always prefers the plain ones. So picky.”

Cor blinks. “Yeah, ma, that’s me.”

His mother stares, perplexed, for a second or two, looking like she’s struggling with something. “Yes, that’s right, dear.” She smiles, but this time, it isn’t warm. It’s guarded.

The sweater bunches under Cor’s twitchy fingers, he has to mentally force himself to stop himself from ripping it off to get to the skin underneath. “I, uh… have to head off to work soon…”

“Oh. Ok.” She doesn’t quite meet his gaze, brow still furrowed. She chews her muffin though, and watches her show. “That’s Ronaldo! See with that impressive moustache.” She points to the man on the screen. By this point, Cor’s worked his way down to his knee, the chafed, scarred skin now under assault by his greedy itching. He doesn’t stop though. He doesn’t want to. Even though his mother’s prayer beads are in reach. He needs this.

“He’s a lieutenant on leave from Cleigne.” She doesn’t bother closing her mouth in between bites, distracted. “My son’s a soldier.”

Cor wants to bury his face in the sweater again. But he doesn’t. He keeps scratching. “Yeah, that’s me. Remember?”

“Hmm?” She looks at him, but he won’t look back. He settles his face into a neutral expression, hoping she just ignores him (sometimes that’s better too.)

Cor sees his mother out of the corner of his eye, she sits for a bit, grabs another muffin, but she pauses. “See here. My boy, Cor. He’s a real hero!” Esther points to a picture frame on the bedside table. Cor presses his fists against his eyes, he doesn’t want to see.

“You know I hate that picture, ma.”

“I get worried for him, you know.” She picks up the frame, trying to show him. “He’s so young ‘n all. But he knows how to take care of himself. I taught him that much.”

Cor just nods, rubbing his fist along his temple. He won’t look. “You must be proud.”

The subtle affirmation sound that his mother makes is just enough to rouse that emotion, the one that’s slowly been eating up Cor’s insides all morning. He bows his head, slumping forward in the chair. _Godsdammit…_

He hears the sound of his mother placing the picture frame back in its spot, and he spares it a glance. That fucking newspaper clipping, after he’d gotten back to Lucis, after they’d lost the war. Fourteen years old with a busted jaw. Shaking hands with King Mors. _It’s not me_ , he wants to say. It might as well not be. So he could go on pretending this woman was just like everybody else, every heart-broken mother with a child in the service. He doesn’t want to be that boy anyway. He hates that fucking picture.

Obsessive scratching now all Cor has to distract himself from that feeling ( _don’t think about it; just don’t think about it_ ), the man just ignores that part of himself, the part that wants to cry, wants to look his mother in the eyes and see recognition, see love, and instead he sits back in the chair by her bedside, says “Tell me about your show,” and spends the next half hour hearing about the fictional lives of some gods-awful fucking soap opera and tries his hardest not to think about the fact that his mother retains all these fucking details, but she can’t even remember that he’s her son.

(That’s why it’s harder; he almost wishes she doesn’t remember him sometimes, that she’d just forget him all together. Let her be proud of that boy, the one in the picture, the hero. _It’s not me_ …)

When the nurse comes in to check on her again, Cor decides it’s time to leave. He’d rubbed his knee raw anyway and gods, he still had the meeting this afternoon.

“Ma, I gotta go, alright?” He rakes a hand through his hair, putting the cap back on. “You gonna be ok?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes dear.” Eyes a bit glazed over, his mother still nibbles a muffin, watching the tv. “Oh, wait!”

There’s a second where Cor’s heart skips a beat, that part of himself that he hates, that evil hope, but no; his mother still eyes him with that air of uncertainty, polite, but unfamiliar.

“Would you give this gift to my son? He works with King Mors, in the Citadel.” She’s holding out a wrapped package and Cor doesn’t want to take it. “It was his birthday. December seventh.”

“Sure.” His voice doesn’t even sound like his, but it’s better this way. If he sounds deeper, more like a man, it makes it easier to pretend.

“He works so hard. My boy.”

Cor just makes the same affirmative sound his mother made before.

“Take some of these muffins, will you? Gods know I can’t eat them all myself!”

He does. He takes the present and the muffins and he looks into the eyes of the woman who raised him, and he tucks her blankets around her form again, and he leaves her there.

The nurse catches him as he’s about to exit the door and all he wants to do is scream in her face like some pathetic child to _leave him alone_ , but he refrains.

“She gets like this. You know. It kind of comes and goes in patterns…”

“Don’t worry about.” Again, with the deep voice that isn’t quite his own.

“I do think she was glad to see you.”

Cor just grunts, one hand clutching the stupid gift and the muffins, the other on the door handle.

“You’ll stop by again, won’t you?” She places a hand on his arm again, and Cor wants to rip it off. Wants to scream _don’t touch me_ , but he’s not a child. He’s a man. A _hero_ , his mom said. _Hardly_.

“Yeah, I’ll try.” With that, Cor exits the apartment, makes his way back to his car, and sits there, for far too long.

He sits there and he grabs the neck of his sweater, pulls it over his head, and he wants to hide, wants to scream, cry, anything, but he doesn’t. And he punches his skull through the cap because the things he wants to hide from are all in there and he doesn’t know how to get away from them. So he just shuts down. The part of him that’s still the boy in the picture gets severed, just for now. Enough for him to calm down at least. To stop scratching. To breathe. And he sits long enough to grab a muffin, pick out all the bits of cranberry and raisins, putting them in his denim jacket pocket, before eating it, slamming a fist against his skull again, reversing his car, and leaving.

Life on auto-drive.

It’s becoming the only way he can get through it. But it scares him. He’s already at the Citadel and he has no knowledge of how he got there (it’s better this way, _it’s better_ , don’t think, don’t look).

He gets a few odd glances as he procures his badge, makes his way through to the chamber halls. It’s only when he catches a glimpse of himself in the shiny black walls that he realizes he’d never changed out of his civilian clothes. The faded jeans, the casual jacket. He stops short, stone-cold panic bleeding through all his cracks ( _Don’t_. Don’t think about it. Don’t think).

He pushes on. He has to. Even though he can feel himself falling apart with each step, each heartbeat an echo of _don’t think don’t think_. Because if he does, if he stops, if he thinks, he’d drown in a flood of weathered hands, eyes glazed with confusion, _ma, it’s me, remember_ , the woman who screamed at him after he got off that bus from the frontline _I don’t know you_ , the woman who taught him how to take care of himself, who pushed out a baby on the downtown metro, the woman with the blue beads… lost, broken, forgotten…

Cor stands in front of the council chamber (but is he even really here? It doesn’t matter).

A hand on his shoulder that would’ve made him freak out if he wasn’t so numb calls him back to reality. Bright green eyes, strong hands. “Cor? Are you alright?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He replies without thinking, the husky voice that isn’t really his.

“You didn’t forget… ah, the meeting, yes? Your clothes…” Regis is visibly confused. It would bother Cor if he was more responsive.

Instead, he lets his body take over, the words coming out if his mouth autonomously. “Forgive me, My Lord. I was delayed a bit.”

The King still stares at him, concerned, but he nods, places a guiding hand on his back, then ushers Cor into the Council chamber.

He hears everything like he’s underwater, Regis addressing the council members (Cor can’t even focus on their faces, does it matter? They’re all the same…), his proposals for the spring, changes to Crownsguard regulation, he hears his name a bunch of times _Captain Leonis, Captain Leonis_ ( _It’s not me_ , he wants to say).

He’s able to reply, at least. The voice coming out of his mouth might as well be that of a stranger. He’s courteous, he’s venerable, he’s not himself.

Regis keeps giving him that look, but Cor just feels… detached. He hears Councilman Vars give him a particularly vicious appraisal _how could he be expected to lead the guard, he has no noble standing, no experience?_

Cor listens as Regis sings his praises, says _I’ve watched this man on the battlefield and off, I have no greater faith in his character and his martial aptitude_ , and the man sits there and he feels his fingertips go numb, the voice in the back of his head like a ricochet pounding against the walls of his consciousness _it’s not me, its not me…_

He doesn’t know how long he can last.

But some of the council are nodding at Regis, nodding at him. Vars still casts him that spiteful look, judging his casual attire, seeing right through him. 

Regis stands, smiles at him, says _I’ve been lucky to have this man at my side, and I have the utmost confidence in my decision for this matter_ , and Cor tries to smile back, but he can’t feel his face, and the voice in his head echoes _look, ma, I’m a hero after all_.

There’s a motion to put forth a vote, to come to a conclusion by the month’s end. Cor sits there in his civilian clothes in the grand halls of the council chamber, shaking now, hands and feet going cold, desperately seeking out Regis so that he can make his exit. But he’s busy, he’s moved on to another matter, but Cor needs to leave. He needs to run. _Now_. He’s slipping.

But Regis won’t look, he’s distracted, not focused on him anymore. He can’t see that he’s losing it (why would he? Cor’s been the picture of a loyal lapdog, a hero, right?).

A manic thought has Cor reaching in his jacket pocket, fingering one of the raisins and he’s just about to chuck it at the King when Regis finally meets his gaze.

An expert in schooling his features, Regis has just a second where he shows Cor his concern, before he turns and whispers something to an aid, then motions to Cor.

“You may leave, Captain Leonis. I’ll meet you in my chambers momentarily.”

That’s all Cor needs. He’s up and out of his chair, remembering to bow at least, to give his regards to the councilmembers, before booking it out of the hall.

_Oh gods, oh gods…_

He doesn’t know what’s happening, but all of his emotions are catching up. Like synapses of panic, little reminders of what had just happened _don’t think no don’t think_. But he can’t help it now. A rush of regret, fear, embarrassment consumes him. He has to stop himself against a wall on the way to Regis’s chamber, shaking his body against the cold marble _not now, not now_.

He makes it to the chamber at least. But by this point, he’s having trouble breathing. His one saving grace is that Aulea isn’t here, because he doesn’t know what he would’ve done then.

Alone now, he throws himself onto the King’s couch, twisting his cap around so he can bury his face in the pillow and let it all wash over him in one fell swoop. He doesn’t scream. But gods, he wants to.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there. But Regis comes in eventually.

He hears the door click, the soft whispers to the guards then the heavy sigh, a glass bottle clinking. “Are you alright then?”

Cor’s still got his face shoved into the fancy cushion but he’s able to grunt.

“You had me worried, dear. Are you ill, do you need me to fetch a doctor?” Regis still hasn’t approached him, but it’s probably for the best.

Cor doesn’t want him to see him, to hear how he’s struggling to breathe _I’m fine I’m fine please don’t worry about me, not when you…_

“Cor, dear?”

“Sorry, sir,” Cor sits up, hat still backwards, breathing still strained, but he doesn’t want Regis to worry. Gods know he has enough on his plate already. “I… uh… I’m not feeling myself.”

“Well that’s obvious.” Regis is still fiddling with the drink cabinet, back turned. “I’ve told you not to overwork yourself, dear, but gods, showing up like that, I thought you’d forgotten about the severity of this whole damn thing.”

“I.. I haven’t forgotten… I-” There’s a block in his throat, and Cor feels himself suffocate for a second, gods, his hands are shaking. _Look at me_ , he wants to scream. But he can’t. Regis is still occupied with trying to find a particular bottle. “I’m _sorry_.” He chokes out. Then he stands, because he feels the terror take hold and he doesn’t know what else to do, that feeling of desperation, that need to run, he’s losing it…

“You had me worried is all. But you maintained yourself enough, I’ll give you that. I think the meeting went well, no?”

“I… uh…” Cor can’t say anymore, he’s pacing the chamber, trying to find a better way to breathe. He feels his legs start to go senseless.

“Cor,” Regis finally turns to look at him, still bent by the cabinet. “My, you’re really not looking too good. I think I ought to have you checked out…”

“I…” His voice is hijacked by panic, each syllable trembling. “Regis... I uh… I think I’m gonna… pass out…”

Regis stares for a second, open-mouthed, and confused. His lips move, but Cor can’t tell what he’s saying. It’s the last thing that Cor sees, because the next second finds him falling backwards against the wall, arms failing to halt his collapse, and when he hits the ground he hears the King’s concerned call, but by that point he’s already slipped under.


	5. Chapter 5

“You don’t gotta call a doctor, really. I’m fine.”

“Sweetheart, you just collapsed-”

“Regis. _Please_.” Cor sits with his head in his hands, tucked against the wall of the King’s chamber. He doesn’t want to see a doctor, he doesn’t want his hands to still shake and he certainly doesn’t want Regis looking at him like _that_ , calling him _sweetheart_ , a gentle hand on his forehead.

When he’d come to (he’d only been down for like a minute, really), the look on Regis’s face made him want to faint all over again. The King had hovered over him, green eyes alight with fear, and all Cor could do was pull back, slump forward against the wall and insist, incessantly, that he was _fine_. 

“Are you certain you’re not ill? Have you eaten today? Drank enough?”

“Mm, didn’t really eat much. It’s probably from that…” There’s a stash of raisins and cranberries in his pocket, Cor remembers. Wouldn’t do much credit to his sanity if he were to just whip them out and start popping them in his mouth. 

“I can get a server to fetch you something then, alright? Please, are you able to stand, do you need assistance?”

“Reg, I’m good. Really.” It’s rare that Cor’s so casual with his King, but in times of distress he often finds himself slipping back into his city dialect, words cut short out of habit. It’s bad enough that he just proved himself a massive failure to him already. 

Cor stands, has to hold an arm against the wall, not really trusting his legs, but he manages. Regis guides him to sit on the couch, gestures to a server outside to bring some food and Cor just sits there. Mortified. But… not unstable. It’s actually surprising how his emotions have calmed down, but he supposes that literally passing out from stress is one way to abate it. Not really something he wants to try again. Nevertheless, he’s able to focus now, at least. His hands are somewhat twitchy, but if he keeps them clasped together, he almost doesn’t notice. 

There’s a dip in the couch next to him, and a tender hand on his shoulder. He shuts his eyes, wants to shake his head in preparation for the question he knows is coming again.

“Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

“Mmm.” He doesn’t bother opening his eyes, relishing the blackness behind his eyelids for once. So that he doesn’t have to look and see the disappointment on Regis’s face. 

The hand on his shoulder moves to his forehead, a small act of affection that Cor can’t help but lean in to (he doesn’t know what it is; anyone else touching him makes his skin crawl. With Regis, it’s a comfort).

“You don’t feel warm.”

“I’m not sick. I promise. Just got a little light-headed.”

“I’m worried for you…”

The hand retracts and Cor almost reaches out for it, but doesn’t. He opens his eyes to look at his own hands, locked together. He swallows. “I guess I’ve been having… a bit of a hard time lately.”

It’s physically painful for him to say it, but he feels he owes Regis something. An explanation for his pathetic behavior.

The subdued sigh at his side is almost enough to make Cor feel sick again. “I know, dear.”

Fingers twisting in their self-inflicted prison, Cor snorts. “Didn’t want to make a big deal of it… just some things I’m dealing with… plus the whole meeting and all, it kinda got to me I guess.”

“I don’t blame you, Cor. In fact, I’m surprised you’ve maintained yourself for this long. No, I… I really ought to pay more attention to these things. I’m sorry, old friend.” Regis’s smile is in his voice. Funny how even still, Cor can tell it’s forced.

“I won’t let it become an issue again, sir.”

“Sweetheart,” _Gods_ , this is too much; Cor lets his hands move to his head, he wracks them against his temple, fingers buckling. “I’d be more than happy to give you some time off. Really, things are all set in motion now, I…I don’t want you working yourself to exhaustion. Please, just… take a break. ”

“I can’t leave you like that.”

Disgraceful, _worthless_ , a failure to the crown before he’d even accepted his new post.

The inhale of breath next to him might as well fill his own chest. “Cor.” Exhale. “Listen.”

He turns. Looks at Regis sitting composed on the couch, his nice suit, the spring green color in his eyes, the silver in his dark hair. Cor gives a slight nod, head still cradled in his tremoring hands.

“It’s nothing against your integrity. You’re very strong, I’ll have you know. Stronger than me, especially now.” A light chuckle that makes Cor want to break his own fingers. “I trust you with my life, remember? I think you owe yourself… a bit more attention, though. For your wellbeing. It’s… a difficult time, I know. I… I won’t hold it against you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Cor doesn’t respond, but he feels his head tighten. Pressure behind his eyes. 

“Just, take some time for yourself. I’ve got things handled, you know that. Perhaps… two weeks, alright?”

“Regis, no, I-”

“Sweetheart, please.” His wellbeing may never be saved if Regis keeps calling him that, keeps looking at him like that. “I could make it an order.”

Slumping forward, Cor drops his head, elbows resting on his knees, “Yeah, alright. _Fine_.”

“Two weeks.”

He grunts and feels Regis shift at his side.

“It’ll probably do you good. Gods know you need it.” There’s that unspoken addition: _I need it too_. But Regis keeps it to himself.

Cor just nods again, because what could he say? _I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I promise?_ He literally fainted in front of the man he’s been trying to prove himself to. What could he say; that all he wants to do is rip his skin off, rearrange it so that he resembles something he’d be proud of, something worthy, a hero… that he’d rather break his own back carrying him if it meant Regis didn’t have to suffer holding up that godsdamn wall, for the sake of everyone else… that he’d die for him _right now_ if he asked, give him back that piece of life that lives under Cor’s skin that doesn’t belong there, to help him, to save him … (or this, the thing that really seeps into his mind if he’s not careful: that all he wants is to be that boy again, just a boy, and Regis would be his friend, a boy too, and they could stand tall and grow without the weight of the world on their shoulders, just two kids, in another life, children without battle scars, no destiny, no legacies… but, no he couldn’t say that). 

So he says “I’ll try to work on it, sir” and he allows himself to smile, the forced kind, the only kind they’ve been exchanging lately, and he nearly feels his heart crack when Regis returns it with his own, but he doesn’t let it show. They both don’t.

And when the servers come back with the food, Cor makes himself eat it, even though he’s sick to his stomach, even though there’s a lump in his throat the size of the whole world, but he’s used to carrying the weight. So he pushes on.

And he leaves.

Seemingly expelled from the Citadel, Cor sits in his car in the parking lot, head against the steering wheel, breathing in and out, slow, long, like Clarus said, even though it hurts, even though his chest is convulsing around suppressed sobs that he won’t let escape, even though each breath is wrought by thoughts of _worthless, pathetic, a failure_ …

So much for taking it easy.

The only thing to pull him from his misery is spotting the wrapped package he’d thrown into the passenger seat. He’d forgotten. The gift from his mother.

Holding it in his shaky hands, he pulls the card from the ribbon it’s tucked under. There’s a stupid looking dog on the front, blowing out candles on a cartoon cake. Cor flips it open, reading the message scrawled out in his mother’s handwriting. _To my sweet boy. Don’t work too hard. I love you._

He has to pretend there isn’t pressure behind his eyelids, even though his vision’s gone blurry. He has to pretend he doesn’t care when he unwraps the damn thing, he makes himself laugh at it; it’s one of those game things kids play with, a hand-held device (something he wanted as a child, asked his mom for one, but she bought him some knock-off thing instead that only worked if you hit the back six times in the right spot, but he pretended to like it, pretended a lot of things, and he still does), he wipes his eyes but he pretends it’s nothing, pretends, pretends, it’s fine, _he’s fine_.

(He’s fine, as long as he pretends. That’s how he takes care of himself.)

He stops at the store on the way home. It’s still early, only around four now, but he realizes if he’s gonna go home and _relax_ , then he’d need some godsdamn food.

He barely thinks as he grabs items from the shelves. Not his favorite hobby, shopping. But he picks up the things that catch his eye. It doesn’t matter. Snacks, candy, all the things he wanted as a kid. _Let him have it_.

Cor rarely drinks, thinks most alcohol tastes like shit to be honest, but he grabs a pack of some of those sweet cocktail drinks, the girly ones that taste like fruit punch. Yeah, he likes those. Abandoning restraint, he just keeps piling them into his cart. _Gotta have something to help him take it easy, right?_

He ignores the look he gets at the checkout counter, just keeps throwing all the shit he’d collected on the conveyor belt. The cap he’s wearing is barely enough to conceal his identity, he thinks, as the cashier keeps eyeing him suspiciously.

He’s about to say something to the kid, tell him to mind his own fucking business when the guy asks, “ID?”

Cor just blinks stupidly.

“For the uh… drinks?”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“ _Ok_.” The kid couldn’t sound sulkier if he tried. “You still have to show me ID, sir.”

“Yeah, fine,” Cor reaches for his wallet, shaking his head, chuckling slightly. “Here.”

The way the kid takes his card and holds it up, making a show of comparing the faces by tilting his head to look under Cor’s hat, yeah, he’s definitely not being paid enough for this shit. Cor just glares.

There’s that bit of recognition, the way the cashier’s eyes catch on the name, looking up at him once again, curious. “You’re all good.”

“Thanks.”

Cor thinks the punk kid might just let him off with that, but no, as he’s ringing up the final pack of drinks he snickers, “Something to celebrate about, sir?”

“You’d like to know…” Cor mutters under his breath. The kid actually laughs.

“Have a good day, _sir_.”

Suppressing the urge to flip him off, Cor just takes his shit and leaves.

He finds himself at his apartment without really being aware of how he got there (it’s getting worse and worse, his inattentiveness, but what does it fucking matter now?). Shoving off his boots, then extricating himself from the jeans (they’re really too tight for him, gods, _he actually went out like this?_ ), Cor eases on a pair of sweatpants, kicking the busted radiator angrily, before cracking open one of the fruity drinks and throwing himself on the couch.

He presses the can to his forehead, eyes scrunched, almost wishing he did have a fever so that he’d have an excuse for feeling so shitty.

There’s a frozen pizza he’d picked up from the store, and Cor places it in the oven for ten minutes before realizing he’d never turned it on. Stupid. _Useless_.

He takes off the denim jacket, groping under his sheets for the sweatshirt he’s taken to sleeping in. His place is a mess, blankets strewn about, the groceries he’d just bought thrown across on the counter.

But there’s blood boiling under his skin, _anger_ , it’s strong- like when he was younger, that blind torment of an adolescent. Cor has to brace himself against the counter, counting down from ten, feeling his rage simmer, before grabbing another drink.

With his pizza now actually cooking, the man flops back on the sofa, flipping on the tv, not really watching it. He just needs the noise. The drink he’s sipping tastes like coconut and pineapple, it’s good. So he doesn’t really pay attention when he grabs another, and another. It helps his anger subside, at least.

The timer rings and Cor has to shake his head a bit as he stands, dizzy. It’s no matter. He throws the pizza on his coffee table, eating it hunched over on the couch.

He’d nearly forgotten about the tv, wasn’t really focused on it until he hears his own name said aloud.

“…And King Regis’s new proposal for the Crownsguard will put longtime friend Cor Leonis in a leadership position, a move which many cite for its nonconformity, with Leonis being the first common-born officer to advance to such a high position, not to mention the youngest ever to serve…”

Cor just stops, mid-bite, eyes on the screen. It’s a news show, he hadn’t realized when he’d switched the channel. They’ve got a picture of him too, one from a few years ago, standing with Regis after he’d returned from his assignment in Niflheim. They’re smiling, which is odd. Cor hasn’t seen many photos of himself smiling. 

“…With allegations of invalid documents, his age coming into question, and of course, partiality from the King, will Leonis’s appointment be a sign of King Regis’s new administration changes? And what does his proposal for upgraded Crownsguard regulation mean for the future of Lucis’s armed forces?...”

Sinking deeper into the couch, Cor just takes the remote and changes the channel. Then he grabs another drink, strawberry flavored, and he tries not to acknowledge his rage, his acute sense of failure, tries not to think about his role in the future of fucking Lucis, and he gets really _really_ drunk off of those fruity drinks. _Something to celebrate about, huh?_

_This is really tragic_ , he thinks, bent double over the toilet, vomiting his guts out. _My life is so fucking tragic._

He has to pause between heaves, head pressed to the cold tile of the bathroom floor, sobbing. This time when he wipes his eyes, he doesn’t pretend. No. This fucking hurts.

Cursing the deceitful nature of those godsdamn fruit punch drinks, Cor holds a hand over his belly, shaking, before throwing up again, and laying down on the bathroom floor, vowing to never get drunk ever again.

He brushes his teeth like a good boy. Two times, to get rid of the sour taste. But he still feels queasy. His hand nudges the box that holds his retainer, the one the oral surgeon told him he’d have to wear every night for the rest of his life or his teeth might shift back. The last time he wore it was six months ago. And really, it doesn’t even bother him the way his jaw is misaligned. There’s not much to smile about anyway. 

(That picture with Regis; a photographer had caught them laughing about something. Some dumb joke. But the smiles weren’t forced. And he doesn’t hate the picture.)

His bed is probably the only part of this apartment that he likes. Lumpy mattress, six layers of blankets that he nestles over him, like a tent. He just takes his body and crawls under, aching all over. The weight of the blankets on top of him is nice. He likes the heaviness, the warmth.

Cor holds his arms around his middle, face rubbing against the sheet. He finally feels like his stomach isn’t gonna turn inside out again. The sweatshirt rides up a bit, exposing his bare chest against the blanket as he stretches. But the material is nice on his skin, and under the blankets, he can’t see the damage he’d inflicted on his torso, so it’s fine. He’s fine.

He’s not even angry anymore. Just tired. And sore from the vomiting. Under his little tent, the embrace of blankets, he might as well be cut off from the outside world. He likes it. Wishes he could have an escape like this all the time, just pile it on him, blanket after blanket. It beats carrying the weight of the world, the future of Lucis…

His dreams are weird that night; alcohol induced probably.

He’s at a wedding. Maybe Regis and Aulea’s. But the aisle is a blue carpet running down the rows of a super market, and Cor keeps walking down it trying to get to the other side, to get to Regis; he’s got something important for him, the box with the ring for Aulea, yeah. As he walks through aisles of cereals and snacks and junk food, he realizes he’s still wearing his regular clothes, the too-tight jeans that make him look like some uncultured hood, but it’s too late to change now; he has to bring the package to Regis.

He thinks he can see the altar up ahead, but there’s a hand on his chest, halting him, and a monotone voice saying “You need to show me ID for that”. Cor reaches into his back pocket, but the jeans are so tight, he can’t fit his fingers through to reach his wallet. In fact, it’s almost like his pocket’s been sewn shut. So he tries to rip it open, tearing, pulling, and when he does his fingers are covered in red, but he manages to extract his wallet, his ID. 

He looks down at the card; the picture’s all blurry, he can’t make out a face besides brown hair, blue eyes, and he squints at the name and he has to blink a few times, but no, it says A. Leonis. _That can’t be right_. The cashier takes it and nods, says “Have a good day, _sir_ ” and ushers him forward. Cor still clutches the box, but he doesn’t see Regis or Aulea, and the altar is a metro turnstile, so he stops in front of it, uncertain. A disembodied voice calls out “You need a coin for the machine, sir”, and he tries to reach into his pocket but it’s been sewn shut again, so he looks down at the box, the package in his hands that reads _To my sweet boy_ on the top and he tears it open and finds a string of blue beads and a silver heart pendant attached, and he holds it in his shaking hands, tries to insert the pendant into the machine, but it’s too big, it won’t fit; he grinds it, he pushes it, he slams it hard, but it won’t budge, so all he can think of to do is to kick the machine six times in the right spot, but he still can’t get through. _Regis is on the other side_ , he thinks. He must be. But he’s trapped. He can’t get through. And the metro bells chime, signaling that the train will be leaving soon. It’s leaving. And he’s stuck. The bell sound; it’s ringing, it gets louder and louder, _louder, louder_ …

Cor startles awake to the sound of his phone ringing.

He rolls over, clutching his head; gods, the sound penetrates his skull like artillery fire. Groaning, he fumbles for his phone on the bedside table, not wanting to abandon the fluffy warmth of his bed. He retracts, pulling his body back under the comforter, glancing at the still-ringing phone, curses, then accepts the call, “Yeah?” His voice is all gravelly, muffled.

“Still sleeping, kid?” There’s a laugh on the other end.

“Not anymore.”

“Try not to sound so bitter about it. You have plenty of time for sleep now.”

“What do you want Clarus?” Cor doesn’t even attempt to keep the grouchiness from his voice.

“Sheesh. Delphi’s right, you really are not a morning person.”

Cor grumbles, shoving the blanket over his head again.

“Listen, kid. I just wanted to check in. I heard about yesterday, and knowing you, you’ve probably taken your leave as a… reprimand.” Ha, never let it be said that Clarus isn’t intuitive. “That isn’t the case, Cor. You know Regis and I think very highly of you. It’s why we think you deserve a bit of a break.”

He just groans again. “Feels like you just want me out of the way…”

“Oh, _please_.” Clarus laughs again. “Yeah, Regis gives you a promotion then banishes you from the Citadel? Or maybe it’s just that we don’t want you showing us up anymore, eh Marshal?”

“Ahck, just lay off…” Cor pushes a fist against his throbbing head, eyes closed.

“In all seriousness, I think you deserve this, kid. You haven’t… quite been yourself lately. Just take some time to cool off, _relax_ , and when you get back to work you can start showing me up again all you like, yeah?”

 _It shouldn’t feel this bad_ , he thinks. _Clarus is probably right_. But still, Cor can’t help thinking that they’re tip-toeing around his issues like he’s some fragile child. Like he’d go off fainting and freaking out in coat closets again, using that gentle tone they used back after Galahd, after he didn’t talk for twelve days. Well he can talk now. And he can do his damn job, Astrals’ sakes. 

“What the hell am I gonna do with two weeks?”

“I don’t know, man. Find a new hobby or something.”

“You sure this isn’t a punishment?”

“Ha! You wish. Listen, I have to run, but give me a call if you’re feeling… you know. I’m here for you, Cor.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He knows it. Clarus is the kinda guy who would answer if he called at two a.m. Cor just doesn’t want to take advantage of that.

“See ya, Marshal.” Gods, he can practically hear the wink.

Cor burrows back into his nest of blankets, the bottom half of his face nuzzling into the sweatshirt he’d slept in, breathing the familiar scent, and he thinks, _yeah, Clarus is a good friend_. And he falls back to sleep for another few hours. 

The better part of his morning wasted, Cor spends the afternoon cleaning his apartment. The mess was getting too much, he’s better than this, really. Because it’s so small, it doesn’t take him so long. Sorting through his clothes again leaves him wondering if he needs to go shopping. He really needs a better pair of jeans. But he’s cozy in his sweatpants, and the reclusive side of himself keeps telling him he’s not gonna go out much anyway.

He finds himself back on the couch, blanket wrapped around him, it’s still godsdamn cold in here. He would attempt to fiddle with the radiator, but that promise to repair it is still fixed in the back of his head, even though he knows it won’t be acted upon now. His body aches, head heavy from the hangover. But he almost prefers feeling sick. It helps him take care of himself better.

Regardless, the knock at the door at around 4:30 finds him nearly half-asleep, jolting up off the couch in surprise. _Huh_. He never gets visitors. At first he’s worried it might be Clarus coming to check on him, but no, the man was too busy for that. Then a creeping suspicion makes him fear that the press have gotten hold of his location, that they’re sending a team to come ask him more pointless questions.

Cor’s pacing by the door when it knocks again, and he hears the placid voice ask “Are you home Mr. Leonis?”

Recognizing Mrs. Blazek, Cor opens the door, sees the elderly woman and her grandchild standing outside and he leans out, sheepishly rubbing a hand up his hair.

“See! I toldya he was home gramma!” Agnes points with gusto. “He never responded to my note!” With that, she brandishes the pink sticky note she’d just pulled from his door, accusatorily.

“Sorry, Mr. Leonis, you know how she gets riled up,” Lenore gives him a knowing smile, places still hands on her granddaughter’s shoulders.

“Can I… help you guys with something?” Cor just leans against the doorframe.

“Sorry to bother, dear, really. Only we were just checking in with the other neighbors about the water situation. Apartments four through twelve on this block have all got problems with the water heating today. I just wanted to check if yours has gone cold as well.”

Now that he’s looking closer, he can see that Agnes is wearing a bathrobe, fuzzy slippers, and she’s got a grumpy look.

“I uh… I haven’t checked. I’ll… go have a look. Just wait here…” Cor detaches from the door, leaving the two in the hall. He rushes to his bathroom, to the shower, flips it on, then shoves his head under the spray, standing there for a solid thirty seconds before realizing it isn’t getting any warmer, and another ten seconds before realizing he could’ve just tested with his hands.

Feeling entirely too stupid for his own good, Cor returns to his neighbors, hair now sopping wet, awkwardly confirming, “Yeah, it’s cold.”

Mrs. Blazek gives him a look of concern. But she doesn’t comment. Cor blocks most of his apartment from view with his body, but he can tell Agnes is trying to get a look inside.

“I…uh, I can have a look at the tank. I think there’s one for all the rooms on this side.”

“Don’t bother yourself none, dear. I’ll call the landlord and have him sort it out.”

“Last time it took about three months, right?” Cor remembers having to shower in the Citadel training rooms, but it really wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

“Or maybe you can call in another favor, huh? Like the last time with the fancy bus!” Agnes shoots him a grin.

“Agnes!” Lenore looks mortified. “My apologies, son, we don’t expect any more of your courtesy, really. Agnes is more than grateful for your kindness in the last matter, right dear?”

“Yeah! It’s super cool to go to school every day in that awesome ride! An’ I already thanked Mr. Cor a buncha times!”

Cor just snorts. “Tell you what, I’ll have a look at the tank anyway, and if I can’t seem to fix it, I’ll show you a trick on how to heat your water, alright?”

“Waaahh! I wanna see your cool trick Mr. Cor!”

Shaking his head, Cor heads to the heating closet, twiddles with the tank long enough to evaluate that it most likely just needs replacing. He has Lenore call the landlord, with the promise that if it takes longer than a week, Cor might have to put in another favor.

The kind elderly woman gives him that look again, the one that makes Cor feel like that innocent nineteen year old who’d just moved on his own for the first time. His hair is still damp, and he feels exposed somehow. She pats a hand on his shoulder. “Is your… is the heat in your apartment not working at all?”

He’d left them at his doorway before, she probably could tell the room was ice cold. “Yeah, I… I gotta fix the radiator. It’s not so bad.”

“I can call the landlord about that too…”

“Don’t bother. I’ll uh… I’ll get it fixed myself.”

She gives that look again. “Why don’t you have supper with us tonight, then? I’m sure Agnes would be thrilled.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Agnes is thrilled. Even more so when Cor shows her his way of heating water. He’d filled the bathtub with water, freezing cold. Agnes crouches next to him, eyes wide, as he dramatically pulls out his hand, wiggling the fingers. She doesn’t blink for a second. Then Cor channels the spark inside him, the magic he so rarely uses.

Agnes exclaims, and Cor laughs as she hops up and down like a crazy person. “Oh my gods, howd’you do that Mr. Cor?!”

The man just guides the flame in his hand along the water, heating it quickly. “It was a gift.”

“No way! I thought only the King could do cool stuff like that!”

“Yeah, well. I don’t use it very often.” He doesn’t. It always feels like there’s a price to it. Like he’s still not worthy.

“This is so cool! Wait til I tell Cynthia I had a bath in _magic water_!”

“The water’s not magic, dummy.” He splashes a bit at her, and she squeals. “Now go on and get clean. Your grandmother’s gonna have dinner ready soon.”

“Yes sir!” The girl mock-salutes him and he chuckles again.

Cor starts setting the table, despite Lenore’s insistence that he’s a guest. He sits and watches her cook, the faint sounds of Agnes singing in the bathtub making him smile in spite of himself. There’s a memory playing in his head; he’d been around seven- the water in their apartment gone cold as well, ma said the landlord was tryin’ to cheat them out of it, but his dad said he’d find a way to fix it. He never did. And for months Cor had to help his ma heat the water in small bowls in the microwave, taking trips to the bathtub, trying not to spill. That was a long time ago.

He must look pensive, because Lenore gives him a sad smile as she stirs the pot. “It’s not often that you’re home. Agnes told me you leave off early every day, come home late, but you always respond to her silly messages. Thanks for that.”

“It’s no big thing.” And maybe it isn’t, but Cor actually had been looking forward to those notes. “I uh… I have some time off from work.”

“That’s nice. Lords know you put in a lotta effort. Plus all this new stuff the King’s got you lined up for. Must be a big responsibility ‘n all.”

“Not really.” Cor’d never really thought about it, but no, becoming Marshal isn’t something he’s particularly nervous about. He knows he can handle the pressure, the responsibility. It’s not _that_ that’s causing him stress. _So what is it exactly?_

Agnes charges out of the bathroom, hair a wild wet mop, and she grabs Cor’s arm, wide-eyed. “Gramma an’ I saw you on the tv again! See, I toldya you was famous!”

Cor snorts. “If you insist.”

“Say, what’s a Marshal anyway? Gramma said it was something reeeeal important.”

“Basically the commander of the Crownsguard…” Cor really has no idea how to explain martial echelons to an eleven year old.

“So you’re gonna be in charge of all of those folks ‘round the Citadel?” She leans on the table with her elbows, staring. Seemingly interested.

“In a way. The Marshal is usually appointed in times of war. Seeing as we’re experiencing indefinite armistice, King Regis’s decision to appoint me is one that holds a focus on… internal governing. Basically, I’d be in charge of enacting protocols for all of the recruits, overseeing universal training, as well as developing the infrastructure of the Crown’s security detail…”

He’s positive Agnes has no idea what he’s saying. But her open-mouthed, greedy-eyed expression makes it seem like she’s eating it all up. So he gives her a run through of basic military procedures, his thoughts and ideas for a reformed Guard selection process, the plan for an elite unit of highly-trained officers for Royal recon missions…

By the time Lenore serves dinner, Cor’s certain that, yeah, he’s not worried about being Marshal. And that having someone to bounce ideas off of, even if that person is a middle-schooler, makes things in his mind seem more palpable.

Agnes comments over a mouth full of mashed potatoes. “Don’tcha think it’d be better if more of your soldier guys had magic like the King’s?”

“It’s… not that simple.”

“But you have magic, right?”

“I told you, it’s not really mine. Well, I’m not supposed to have it.” Cor really doesn’t want to get into this now, he’d come to terms with it a while ago, back in Niflheim, so he distracts himself with the pot roast.

“Hmm… Well I still think it’d be useful. Havin’ a bunch of magic and shi- I mean stuff to take care of the Nifs. Pretty cool if you ask me…”

“It’s a thought.”

Later, he helps Lenore wash the dishes, tells her he doesn’t mind, he needs something to do with his hands.

“It’s nice to have a gentleman around.” She touches his arm, but he doesn’t flinch.

Agnes makes distress sounds from the kitchen table, and after about two minutes calls out, “Mr. Cor can you help me with my homework?!”

“Agnes, dear. Don’t take advantage now.” Lenore turns to him. “Sorry for all her… enthusiasm. I’m sure she’s drivin’ you up the wall.”

“It’s really not a problem.” Cor’s honest, and he smiles at Lenore. Then raises his voice to the girl. “And I can have a look at your homework, Agnes, but I don’t think I’ll be much help.”

He isn’t. In fact, staring over the essay assignment, Cor thanks his lucky stars that he ducked outta school when he did. “They expect you to come up with this crap?”

Agnes cackles. “See, I toldya school was no good. How am I s’possed to have an opinion on some long-dead fogey’s view on… what was it again…?”

“… the decision of the monarch to impose external trade regulations and tariffs, and your interpretation of how that benefitted and harmed the Capitol…sheesh, I don’t even know this shit, and I have a godsdamned tutor…”

Snickering at his cursing, Agnes dramatically flops on the table. “Well can you tell your tutor to help me out? I gotta finish this by next week!”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Say, Mr. Cor?” Agnes peers at him, head still on the table. “Why’dyou become a soldier anyways?”

Cor has to pause, thinking of the best response. There’s the obvious: they needed money, his mother lost her job, he couldn’t pawn enough to keep paying for food and shit, and that letter came; the one for A. Leonis, so he took it and he lied, and he made himself work hard, but it was fine, because he knew how to take care of himself.

Instead he looks at the girl and says “Because I’m good at it” and laughs when she rolls her eyes. Then they attempt to make sense of the homework, which doesn’t amount to much.

“Hey, I got something you might like.” Cor remarks to Agnes as the kid packs up her schoolbag. “But you have to promise to be good, ok? Go to bed on time, brush your teeth and all that good shit, yeah?”

She shuffles over to him, eyes sparkling, holding her hands out like a prayer. “Oh yes, Mr. Cor! I promise, I promise!”

He has to retreat back down the hall, grabs the video game from his apartment, shaking his head. When he holds it out to her, the stupid little dance she does sets him laughing again.

“Waaahhh?! Are you serious? I can really have it?!”

Cor just sends a guilty look at Lenore as the child starts running around the apartment hollering. “But you have to be good, remember?” Her grandmother shrugs, but mouths _thank you_ , and Cor nods.

Agnes pauses her goofy celebration enough to rush over to him, say “I will, I _promise_ , Mr. Cor! Thank you thank you _thank you!_ ” And the man spends the next half hour watching Agnes play through the game, giving him a running commentary with over-the-top victory cries when she wins, and he smiles, and is glad that he’s maybe not entirely useless after all…

Later, after he leaves, goes back to his own apartment, he sits in bed. Lets himself be covered by the layers of blankets. And he tries not to think about that boy; the one who carried small bowls across the kitchen to the bathroom, who spilled hot, boiling water on his feet, who held in the cry, his screams, because ma said _daddy’s sleeping, you can’t wake him up boy_ , so he held it in, held it all in, and he still does. And even when his ankles rub against the sheet, wrapped in three pairs of socks, he doesn’t focus on the way they itch still, just more scar tissue. No. He thinks about Agnes playing that game, the joy on her face. And maybe he conjures up an image of two kids; the black-haired one laughing at some dumb joke he’d just told, playing the video game too, running around like idiots, not working too hard…

At any rate, Cor sleeps better that night. 


	6. Chapter 6

“I’m going to have to ask you to step aside-”

“Captain, is it true that King Regis has plans for an administrative turnaround this spring? Can you give us a date for the inaugural ceremony?”

“Please- I need you to step aside, sir-” Cor’s patience is already on thin ice, so really, if this guy doesn’t get out of his face in two seconds… 

“Just, wait! Captain, do you have anything to say about the rumors of your mistreatment in the military, the impropriety of having a child on the battlefield, tell us, was King Mors aware of your age at the time-”

“ _Back off_.” At this point Cor thinks he might just have to push the bastard into a wall.

Arriving at the Citadel (he’s off from work, not barred from entry; plus he needed to check his office for a few things anyway), Cor was immediately accosted at the side gate by this reporter who’s now encroaching upon more than just Cor’s personal space, so maybe he’s regretting coming after all, but it’s too late now.

“Just answer the questions, Captain.” _Gods_ , this guy’s a real piece of work! If he wasn’t standing right in front of the gate, Cor wouldn’t feel so defenseless. But as it is, Cor’s six foot three frame looming over this scrawny reporter, it’s not as if he could just assault the man and have his way. Then again, courtesy only goes so far. 

“This location is for authorized personal only, so I suggest you let me do my business and I won’t have to arrest you.” It’s rare that Cor uses open threats, but this guy really caught him at a bad time.

“Woah, woah, Captain.” The guy waves his hands about, one of them holding a camera. Cor grimaces. “Just doing my job. Won’t you just give me an answer-”

“Step aside, sir-”

“Just, tell us, is King Regis’s decision to-”

“Move it.”

“-enact a higher emphasis on the Insomnian border a sign-”

“Sir, now-”

“-of his abandoning the land we’d conceded to Niflheim. Tell me, what does this mean for Galahd, will it be abandoned for good?”

“I said, move it!” Cor’s about a heartbeat away from grabbing the reporter and slamming him onto the concrete, but he feels a presence behind the gate, and he checks himself.

“Is there a problem… ah, Captain Leonis.” The voice is familiar. And not in a good way. Cor recognizes the Councilman Vars.

“No, sir.” Cor uses his deeper voice, and surprisingly, it levels his head a bit. “I’m just attempting to enter the Citadel.”

“You there!” Vars sneers at the reporter and the guy actually flinches. “Be about your business elsewhere.”

And just like that, the guy turns tail and runs. Cor’s left standing at the gate feeling rather inadequate. He straightens his back, nods at Vars. “Thank you sir.”

“Trouble endorsing your authority, Leonis? I would hope the future Marshal of the Crownsguard would know how to handle a measly agitator, but alas…” (Funny how even at six’ three, Cor still feels like he’s being looked down upon by the much shorter man). This doesn’t bode well.

“I’ve not seen the press come this close to the gate, sir.” A pathetic excuse.

“Ah, well. It’s probably your reputation stirring them up as usual.” He turns, not even looking in Cor’s direction. “Are you coming or not?”

“Uh… yes sir.” Cor’s deeper voice isn’t even enough to make him sound competent. But regardless, he follows Vars into the east end of the Citadel. 

Walking through the corridors with Councilman Vars was not how Cor envisioned his under-the-radar return to his office. The man has to constantly adjust his pace, not sure if he should follow Vars or keep his distance. At some point, the Councilman gives him a look from the corner of his eye, and Cor has to look down at his own clothing, casual again (this time he’s wearing his sweatpants and that same ratty jacket, gods), and wonder just how many damages he’s accruing from Vars.

Cor clears his throat, is about to come up with some line so he can dash off in another direction when Vars speaks. “My son is in your training seminar.”

Taken aback, Cor wracks his brain trying to conjure up a face. Vars. Yeah, he’d known there was a kid with the name, didn’t even make a connection til now. But still, all those brats look and act the same anyway. “Yes, sir. I believe he’s advancing well.”

Vars actually lets out a snort, a barely stifled laugh. “Oh _please_. If you’d heard my son’s testimony to your teaching, you might not have such generous sentiments.”

Cor has no idea what to say to that, so he walks quietly beside Vars, frowning.

“Oh, don’t mistake my account for contempt, no. On the contrary, my son needs harsh scolding. A cut-throat training regimen, as it were. And I find your methods of molding our young fighters perfectly… admirable, Leonis.”

That almost stops Cor in his tracks. He nods slightly. “Thank you sir.”

“You would do well to maintain that severity in all of your endeavors, Leonis. So as not to be caught off-guard by disagreeable reporters, eh?”

If anything, it almost sounds like Vars’s idea of encouragement. Cor will take it. “That’s sound advice, sir.”

“Now, do you intend to follow me all the way into my quarters, Leonis, or do you have something better to be doing with your time?”

Cor hadn’t realized, but they’d stopped outside the Councilman’s chamber. He awkwardly steps back. “No, sir. I’ll be on my way then.”

Yeah. Definitely not how he thought his morning would go.

Cor makes his way to his offices, trying to remain inconspicuous, but his informal attire does set him apart from the usual tailored staff of the Crown. Still, it’s not as if he’s not allowed to be here.

The office that Regis had bestowed upon Cor is far too large for any practical occupation, but the man usually just keeps to his desk. The rest is filled with ostentatious décor that he tries not to pay any mind to. Sitting down in his chair, Cor lets out a sigh. Maybe of relief. He doesn’t know. In fact, he doesn’t even know why he’s really here. There had been no urgent paper-work or such, but he felt he needed to stop by. Just because.

He flips on his computer, takes a moment to relax as it powers up. That run-in with Vars left him rattled. It goes to the man’s character, the way he just… gets what he wants. There’s that aristocratic air, the ability to exact demands in such an unflinching manner. It’s not unlike the quality Regis possesses. And maybe that’s what bothers Cor the most. That he’d never truly be on their level. That he could shout demands til he was red in the face, but a wave of the hand from someone like Vars always goes further. Still. Maybe Cor ought to heed his advice after all.

He’d have more than enough time to _maintain his severity_. What with his new position. In fact, he almost prefers the idea of being feared by his trainees. Makes it easier to be taken seriously.

Dragging a hand up his chest without really meaning to, Cor sorts through his emails. Mostly useless shit. But something does catch his eye. An email from Weskham.

There’s a rather uncomfortable lurch in his stomach, one that makes him scratch along the side of his ribcage, short nails grating against his t-shirt. It had been some time since he’d last messaged Wes, let alone spoken to the man. Clicking on the email only just confirms it- a simple greeting, a _how’ve you been young man_ that just sets Cor’s stomach off again. Guilt. That’s what it is. He’s known that he should reach out to Weskham, his friend from what feels like a lifetime ago. But, yeah- he’d been busy. His excuse for everything.

Cor scans the first lines of Wes’s email, but he has to stop, pulling back from the screen, slumping forward on his desk. It’s no wonder the former aide contacted him- there’s little doubt in Cor’s mind that he’d heard about his mental instability (probably from Clarus), but Cor knows Wes has always been intuitive. Even his wording, the casual air of his writing- Wes always knew the right things to say, the pat on his back, the offering of a meal and a smile, and often Cor felt himself opening up to him without really meaning to. But now- Cor just feels _ashamed_. He doesn’t want anyone feeling sorry for him anymore. He’s a man. A soldier.

Feeling his chest prickle, Cor has to clench his hands into a fist to stop their assault on his skin. He’s itchy, though, godsdammit. And slumped in his desk chair, too afraid to read an email from a friend, yeah… he feels ashamed.

Head propped on the surface of the desk, Cor’s bangs fall into his eyes and he brushes them aside angrily. Yeah, yeah, he’s too busy for a haircut. Too busy for emails. Too busy to function as a proper human being anymore. He has no idea what he’d say to Wes anyway, so when he closes his computer, he only hates himself a little bit for it.

But the breathing- now that he’s not actively sedate, he feels the guilt in his chest turn to a tightness. A strangle-hold on what’s left of his dignity. _Godsdammit_. He was getting better at this, right?

Gripping his hair forcefully, he tries to inhale slowly. But there’s a block in the back of his throat. No, no no…

_Steady, Leonis, you’re better than this._

He grits his teeth hard in his mouth, feels the slight cracking of pressure along his old jaw injury. _C’mon, breathe_. He struggles.

There’s murmurings of voices from the hall, and in Cor’s half-panicked state, he thinks that someone must be coming into his office, he has to hide. So he throws himself under his desk, in the little nook in between the drawers and he sits, and he rocks back and forth slightly, trying to get a handle on his breathing. But it’s hard. It’s so hard.

His hand scratches along his chest, he brings it up between his muscles, following along the sternum to his throat. Fingers twist and dig in his collarbone and he lets out a low whine _. Gods. Please_.

He strangles for air, body shaking. _No no no. Not again_.

The voices pass, but Cor doesn’t leave his hiding spot. He clutches his head in his hands, pulling at his hair, choking.

_Breathe. Just breathe._

Since when was this so hard?

_Breathe. Breathe, kid._

Cor stops his shaking, sits upright. Determined.

There’s a method he used to use. To fall asleep. Back when he’d been stationed on the frontlines, shoved in a cot next to a thousand other sorry bastards, noises and fears and realities all keeping them from respite. For Cor it was the memories keeping him up. A loop of what he’d seen that day, what he’d heard, smelled, felt. Like a movie, but only the worst parts. Only the parts where Cor failed, could’ve did something better, could’ve saved that guy, could’ve moved just a bit faster. _You’ve got a good memory, kid_ \- he remembers one of his captains told him that. The irony wasn’t lost (sometimes Cor envied his mother, still does). So rather than use his powers of recall to bring up images of death, mayhem, failure- Cor tried something else.

The good memories. He’d lay down to sleep on his godsforsaken shit-stained cot and he’d just… let his mind be filled with memories he didn’t hate. One in particular- it used to be his favorite escape on particularly bad nights.

Sitting under his desk now (hardly a warzone), Cor knocks his head back against the hard wood, shuts his eyes, forgets about breathing, forgets about his role in the things to come, forgets about expectation, duty, his ratty jacket and the way people seem to see right through him.

He lets himself fall back into that memory.

It goes like this: Prince Regis is leaning against his shiny new car, the thing he won’t stop bragging about. His Shield, the meat head that keeps wearing tank-tops to show off his flashy tattoos throws him a playful insult, but the Prince isn’t having it, no, not while his eyes still shine from the reflection of the glossy black finish. Cor doesn’t see what’s so great about the car. And in fact he voices it. Which he rarely does. Regis does that thing where he tilts his head, nose in the air as he lists through all of the Regalia’s finest qualities, _the horsepower, the torque, Leonis_. Cor snorts. _Yeah, ok, sir_. Clarus laughs. And Cid chimes in from the beach chair he’s got propped up on the side of the dirt road, smoking those Blue Vapor cigarettes that smell like shit. Cor still can’t remember who first suggested taking the new car for a test drive, or who invited him. He’d never really thought of himself as a part of Regis’s crew. But today; Cor’s got his uniform coat thrown over a rock, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he feels… good. So, here’s the thing about Cor; thirteen, youngest recruit into the Guard, bit of a smartass if you get him talking, which, again, he rarely does. So he always thought the Prince kinda hated him, only brought him along because his father told him too, which still might be true. But Cor never really felt like he could talk to Regis openly, never felt comfortable. But there’s something about being outdoors, the sun heating up his face, the clean air, being out of the city for once. He can taste something in the sunlight. He can feel dust skirting along his boots, coating his skin, but it doesn’t bother him. He likes the feeling. Cor doesn’t even bother schooling himself, falling into that strict behavioral code he’d set for himself that first day of training, when he’d showed up and the instructors laughed at him when he handed over his paperwork _yeah, nice try kid_ , but King Mors hadn’t laughed at him when he demonstrated his sword skill, so Cor hasn’t laughed since, because he’s serious, always has been serious, gods know his face says it all. So when he marches over to Cid, grabs his pack of Blue Vapors, pulls out a lighter from his pocket, sits on the rock next to the old man, lights up his smoke and makes a dig at the Prince, says _you’d think the Crown give more of a shit about their bloody cars than they do about that fucking Crystal_ , he doesn’t think about being serious for once. He’s fucking thirteen after all. The looks on their faces- Weskham pauses as he passes a hand along the hood, but there’s a smile in his curiosity. He makes eyes with Clarus and they both chuckle a bit. It’s Regis that surprises Cor the most. He’d have thought the Prince might reprimand him for his _unseemly behavior_ , but no, the Prince doesn’t miss a beat, just tosses an insult back to Cor, says _funny, Leonis, I’d have thought you were about to wet yourself back there on that sharp turn, what, have you even been in a real car before?_ And Cor turns to him, words warped around the cigarette, but the smile still reads as he says _no sir, us city-folks only got chocobo-carts plowing down the skids, gods you should see the traffic down in Jejun, like a fucking petting zoo._ And Regis’s face is priceless, red cheeks, wide-eyed; but he keeps going, they both do. Pitching insults back and forth. Cor’s not sure when they both realize it’s just been sarcasm, but it doesn’t matter. Not when the Prince gives him the first honest smile he’s seen, directed at him, not when Cor laughs, for real (gods; it isn’t worth being serious _all the time_ ), not when his city accent comes through in all his words but Regis doesn’t call him out for it, doesn’t make him feel like he’s not supposed to be this way, be himself. Cid scuffs him over the head at some point, says _damn kid, whaddya think I’m gonna let you steal my good smokes_ , and Cor just blows smoke in his direction, says _your cigarettes taste like shit old man_ , and he breathes, smoke and sunlight and air, leans back, smiles, and he sees Regis in the background pacing around struggling to come up with a good comeback, and for once, Cor thinks he’s not so different from the Prince. And that maybe he doesn’t hate him after all. Not out here. Out of the city. No rules, no pressure. He’s just… himself. It’s a good memory.

Breathing in and out, slow, slow, Cor can almost taste the Blue Vapors at the back of his throat, eyes still closed, head resting against the wood of his desk. He lets out a chuckle. Rubs a hand along his lips, savoring the ghost of a smile. He’s not thirteen anymore. He may not even be himself anymore. But in that moment- he was.

It’s enough for him to scrape up some self-control and crawl out from under his desk. Stop being a coward. 

He really ought to read Wes’s email, but he doesn’t. Just sits at his desk a long time.

At some point, Cor finds himself wandering the halls of the Citadel. Not really going anywhere. Not really paying attention. He kinda likes it now- his ability to shut things off. It’s better when he can just… keep moving, without thinking, without all the… noise in his head. It’s quiet now.

The voice that interrupts him takes a few seconds to get through. He only bothers to stop because the person repeats themselves. “Captain Leonis, are you alright?”

He looks up and sees Aulea, a string of servants placed around her, but she had stepped forward, surprisingly close to him.

“Ah, My Lady. Forgive me, I uh… didn’t notice you there.” Cor doesn’t answer her question but it doesn’t matter.

“Don’t let my husband catch you about. I thought he’d given you a sabbatical.” Aulea’s got on a shiny, sparkly blue necklace. Cor finds it easier to focus on than her eyes.

“Yes, My Lady. I just decided to stop by my offices for a personal matter.”

“Well, Reggie will no doubt object to you doing any kind of business, lords know he’s been worrying over you.”

Cor swallows. “My apologies, Lady Aulea. I have no intention of making your husband trouble himself on my account. I hope he knows how very seriously I take my duties to him.”

“Of course Captain Leonis,” The necklace sways as Aulea bats a hand. “My husband is very fond of you. And you do him a great service, no doubt. I would only suggest perhaps self-imposing your priorities, so as not to appear… ah, _obsequious_.”

That look again. Gods. Cor has to blink a few times, the bright blue stone in the necklace now threatening to make him dizzy. “Uh… yes My Lady.”

Aulea peers at him still, he can feel her gaze travel along his whole body, lingering on his shabby coat. She makes a small _hmm_ noise. He swears he can see her tilting her head, eyeing his shoulders. He squirms a bit.

“Do enjoy the rest of your time off, Captain.” She smiles, but Cor still won’t meet her eyes.

Instead, he bows, and says “That’s a lovely necklace, My Lady.”

“Oh,” Aulea actually looks taken aback, and she presses a hand to the necklace, and perhaps the tiniest bit of warmth flashes across her features. “A gift from Reggie.”

“It suits you well.”

Cor loses his sense of time again. He’s back in his car, he’s back in his apartment.

It’s really fucking cold now. The busted radiator stares at him accusingly, and Cor just kicks it again.

The hot water had been fixed, at least.

Stripping off his clothes, Cor lets the water run in the background and it warms up the room. He stands there, naked, for a bit. Not getting in the shower. Just standing there. Head bowed. His red, scratched up, ugly body just begging him to rake his hands across it. The rash along his chest is hideous, and it travels down his legs now too. He pinches his fingers into the skin of his thigh, that bullet wound that nearly killed him.

Is this it? Is this all he has to tally his life? _Scars_? Carved into flesh, eternal reminders. So he can scratch the surface, remember the feeling? Cor always thought the good memories don’t hurt him this bad. But maybe he’s wrong. Maybe if he keeps replaying them, scratching at his brain, biting, picking, just to get a taste of that sunlight again they might tear his whole body apart. Maybe he’d get all jumbled, forget what’s real. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. 

All he knows is that he feels cold still, even though the water burns his skin, fogs his vision, and that he could really go for a cigarette. 

_Get over yourself, Leonis_. He has to command himself with the deep voice that isn’t really his. He has to force himself to dry his body properly, to throw on a decent outfit, brush his hair. Stare at his face in the mirror and not flinch. _Get over yourself._

He commits himself to a task because it would be better than just moping around. He drives himself to the nearest hardware store without even knowing what he needs. It’s night now, and the city lights off his windshield flicker like glimpses of another life.

His hair’s still wet and he forgot to wear that stupid hat, but he doesn’t care. He shuffles through isles of tools, and after about ten minutes of incompetent wandering, he finally wills himself to ask an employee for help. 

“Hey, I have a broken radiator. Do you know what I’ll need to fix it?”

“That depends if it’s an issue with the…hey… Leonis, right?” Gods, fucking perfect. Of course he’d be recognized now.

Cor’s about to just walk away, find the shit he needs on his own, when the guy steps closer. “You don’t remember me do ya?”

That stops his retreat. Cor looks closer. The guy’s got dark hair, dark eyes. But the smile that cuts across his face draws up… something in Cor’s memory. He remembers his strong arms, pulling him up, carrying him across a battlefield. “Corporal Jaharis.”

Jaharis snorts. “Not a Corporal anymore, hah.”

Cor stands there, rocking back on his feet slightly. He remembers Jaharis of course, he’d been the one to pull him out of that cluster-fuck with his face all busted up. Now, the man before him barely looks like a soldier at all. He’s shorter than Cor remembers.

Jaharis pats a hand on his shoulder. “Man, look at you kid. Gods, you got tall!” Cor does feel strange, looking down on his former comrade (when he’d been fourteen, clinging to his body for support, the guy just felt… bigger… older. He’d probably only been the age Cor is now). “Still makin’ a name for yourself I see. Hah. But you’ve been good? Been takin’ care of yourself, yeah?”

Cor nods, not really sure what to say. But his interactions with Jaharis had always been fairly one-sided.

“I can’t believe it man. Look at you. When I heard King Regis was makin’ you Marshal I told all the guys I work with that hey, I knew that kid, he was my godsdamn superior officer! Godsdamn.”

“I don’t think anyone would’ve thought back then that I’d make it this far, huh?”

“No, you were always the best of us, kid. Never complaining, never questioning orders. Gods…” With that Jaharis gets a look, a pensive one, one that’s almost sad. “When I… uh… rescued you that day, it really hit me. How young you were, ya know? There you were pulling rank, but gods… I uh… I still think about it sometimes…”

Cor’s silent for a bit. They both are. Maybe they’re both echoing the words in their heads, the ones Jaharis spoke that day _don’t forget the cost… alright, Leonis?_

Shaking off his uneasiness, Cor smiles at the guy, says “It’s really been a while, huh?” even though it’s only been… what _seven years_? Seven years and Cor’s still going.

“It really has,” Jaharis replies, shakes his head slightly. “You look good, Leonis.”

“Cor.”

He smirks. “Luke.”

The two former soldiers shake hands and Cor thinks it ought to feel like some grand important moment, but it doesn’t. They’re just two guys who knew each other in another life.

“So about that radiator…”

Cor lets Jaharis, Luke, show him a few things that might help fix his heater. It’s funny, the hardware vest suits him better than any military uniform ever did. He’s still got the shadow, fixed behind his kind eyes, but he hides it well. Better than Cor at least, whose stark blue eyes might as well expose him more than the raw scar tissue littering his skin.

And when Luke asks him a few questions _so what’ve you been up to, how’s the Citadel life treating you_ , it doesn’t feel as invasive as some shit-face reporter, so Cor answers. And he likes the way Luke’s face changes in response to his comments. His laugh lines that are real, palpable things. The way his interest is genuine, written in kindness not _severity_.

All the while, Cor keeps shoving down that lingering memory, trying not to scratch at it: _I don’t want you to forget it, Leonis. What this fight took from you, ok?_

He ends up buying a bunch of shit he doesn’t need just cuz he likes hearing Luke explain the purposes of all the tools.

And when he gets back to his apartment, changes his clothes, looks down at his ruined body, he thinks this might be it; the cost. How they took a boy’s body and shaped it into this ugly thing. It’s no wonder he wants to pull his skin off. The memories will always be there. Ugly, twisted, eternal, immortal things.

And maybe he’d never be rid of that feeling, or never stop chasing the lost-life of a boy who doesn’t exist anymore. But he’d try to fix himself. Little by little. He has the tools now.

So tomorrow, he’ll take a wrench to that damn radiator and maybe he won’t feel so cold. 


	7. Chapter 7

Cor has that dream again. The bad one.

_The hands, the screams, the children..._

Only this time, as he frantically scans his chest to make sure- that no organs, no bones are coming out- he feels a stinging pain, a sticky wetness and his fingers come back red.

His shirt clings to his skin and when he tries to shift it, it sticks, snagging on a large scab. He must’ve been rolling around in the night, aggravating his rash. 

Now Cor tentatively pulls at the material of his t-shirt, feeling it catch on his skin. It’s a biting sensation, all up and down his chest, like tiny sparks slowly catching fire. He tears away the material in one go, just to get it over with.

There’s a wound along his side that had crusted over, but tiny rivulets of blood still seep through. Seeing it makes him… feel smaller somehow. _The hands, the scraping scratching hands that held him down in his dream, so small, so tiny_. Cor has to look at his own hands- red congealing under some of his fingernails- and already they’re aching. Eager to start scratching again. No. _Don’t_. As Cor looks around, he sees that the sheets have collected splotches of blood in varying sizes, some now a deep brown. Dried. Probably stained for good.

_Gods-fucking-dammit boy what did you do?_

The voice that rips through his head surprises him. Cor hadn’t thought himself capable of conjuring it up with such clarity, but it makes him stiffen, breath catching in his throat, the whimper he nearly lets out a testament to the power it still holds over him. _You look me in the eyes boy…_

He shudders.

Cor rips his shirt off, throwing it to the floor. He swallows. Breathes as deep as he can. Holds his hands clasped together to stifle the tension. Watches as a line of blood trickles down his side, leaking onto the sheet. _It’s a fucking mess… look at this fucking mess_ … he shuts his eyes.

_I said look me in the eyes when I’m talkin’ to you boy._

Cor grimaces, crushes his hands against his eyes, feeling nauseous. _I know I know… It’s all my fault…_

He blinks, hunching forward in bed, arms wrapping around his knees. He squints at the angry patches littering his bare torso, worsening around entry wounds, old stitches, shrapnel that might still be inside him. Cor shudders again, staring fixedly, watching as the red tapestry moves as he moves. All the while it burns, stings, screams at him to touch _yes, touch it, scratch it, it’ll make it feel better you have to touch it to make it real…_

No. He won’t. He’s stubborn, gods, he’s stubborn, but he won’t, he won’t-

_A sharp hand cuts across his face, it stings, it makes him start to cry almost immediately, more from the surprise of it, he’s embarrassed now, the tears seep into his mouth and he cries harder,_ look at me _, no no no he doesn’t want to,_ you stupid brat look at me now godsdammit _, no no no he shakes his head and the hand slaps his face again, says_ you’ll never learn will you, you’ll never learn anything if you don’t fucking listen _and he just cries harder but he won’t look, no, no, cuz the eyes are cold and blue, and he doesn’t like it, no he doesn’t like it, he likes when the eyes are different, smiling, looking down at him, and the hands- when they pat his head, not when they’re hurting him, not making him cry, so no, he won’t look and he won’t listen cuz he’s stupid but he won’t look, he won’t look, he won’t…_

A beep at his side alerts him of a message from his phone. But Cor’s got his head wrapped so tightly in his arms he can’t even bring himself to care. He bows forward, crushing his face against his chest, panting. Shaking.

Another beep. He almost lets out a noise, a sob, but he smothers it buy biting down on his fist.

_What a fucking mess…_

Cor jolts up out of bed.

No.

_You’re better than this Leonis._

He wrings his hands along the back of his neck, pacing. He’s still shirtless and he’s so fucking cold he thinks his fingers are going numb already, but it helps. It helps bring him back into focus.

No.

He’s better than this.

He can do better than this.

Cor strides to the bathroom, pulls out a towel and wets it. He drags the thing up and down his bare chest, wiping away the red, the crusty blood that makes him feel dirty, disgusting, worthless. He just won’t think about it. No. He won’t think.

So that’s what he does. He shuts out all his thoughts, his insecurities, all those pathetic things that make his skin crawl worse. He closes it off.

Standing in the bathroom, cold, so cold, he shakes his head once. Then gets to work.

Cor grabs a warm sweater from his wardrobe, doesn’t think as it scrapes along his rash, and he plops himself down in front of the busted radiator and he doesn’t _think_ , he just works. 

Working is different. It’s something he’s realized over time. He can get lost in things if it’s just…doing stuff; paperwork, maintenance, training drills. He doesn’t need his mind to be completely on. Maybe that’s why he likes it. Maybe that’s why he’s been working his ass off since he was thirteen. Yes. No more thinking. Just work. Work and drills and paperwork and war. Might be all he’s good at.

The radiator proves to be a challenge. Cor remembers what Luke told him; that if there’s a water leak all he’d need to do was find the source, a crack in the valve maybe. But he sees no water. And running through Luke’s other tips, Cor can see that it’s probably an issue with the pipe. He tries replacing the connecting valve with the new one he’d bought, but nothing changes. He tries unscrewing another port, replacing all the old rusty parts with new ones, but it still won’t fix.

A buzzing sound alerts Cor of his phone ringing again. A text. He’s so focused on his task though, that he pays it no mind. He tries re-screwing all the valves into place, tightening things that look loose. His phone beeps again. He starts to scowl at it.

Cor tries focusing on his current task- removing the old stem and seeing if it’s rusted over, but his phone rings again, so he angrily marches over to it. The screen shows the familiar number. _Delphi_. Guilt stews in his gut, but he really doesn’t feel like talking to her now. He slams the thing on the kitchen counter, not even looking at it as it still rings.

Gods. He doesn’t want to talk now. Cor isn’t sure how long he spends trying to fix the damn radiator. But it gets lighter, maybe near noon. He’s probably hungry, he doesn’t care.

He’s not thinking.

So it all doesn’t matter. He’s working. Even if nothing’s getting fixed. He’s so engrossed in it. He needs this.

But his phone buzzes again.

And again.

Fucking hell…

Anger now surging unexpectedly through his veins, Cor grunts, detaching from the radiator, planning on just shutting the damn thing off so it’ll shut up.

Only-

_Whack!_

Cor cracks his head in an upward motion on the underside of the counter.

(If he was thinking, he would’ve realized how close he was), but no- he simply sat up too quickly and brought his head right up to the sharp corner.

It’s one of those moments where it takes a few seconds to register what just happened. _No, no_ , he thinks. _No it doesn’t even hurt_.

But then-

Cor feels like his skull’s cracked open, and he grips his forehead suddenly, gasping. Blood spews over his fingers in a surprisingly rapid rate. _No, no. I’m fine. It’s fine_.

But then he tumbles backwards, off-balance, faint. He manages to catch himself on the back of a chair. No, no no no.

It hurts now. Real fucking bad. Cor whines as he puts pressure on his gushing forehead. No, no, no…

And then… he can’t feel his legs.

Cor loses balance, collapsing on the floor. He lets out a cry, his wounded head crashing against the tiles. He clutches it still, hand now soaked with blood.

His legs… he can’t…he can’t…

“I can’t feel my legs…” Cor mumbles it out loud to himself, somewhat delirious. He’s sprawled on the kitchen floor, face-down. Why, why, why…

_Sharp, screams in his ear, he’s trying to cover his face with his hands, but someone’s pulling them, someone’s yelling at him look at me look at me…_

Cor gasps in air too quickly.

He’s able to glance over his shoulder, his legs are just… unmoving. He tries to turn himself, but a sharp splintering feeling comes from his head and he moans, pressing his fingers harder into the source.

It’s not good. He’s able to think that at least. _This isn’t good…_

Hands slick with blood, Cor pushes his chest up a bit to get his face off the cold tiles. He tries to settle his vision, but everything sways, blinking rapidly, eyes wide. He reaches out a hand to steady himself, bloody fingers tracing the tiles. He stares at the floor, trying to pull back into focus. _Focus, focus. C’mon, kid._ Black and white. And now red. He tries counting the number of tiles. There’s a deviation in the pattern, he realizes. One, two, three, four black squares in this arrangement, while on the left side of him, one, two, three… only three black squares. It makes it harder to focus on, but it’s there. Two different patterned tiles. Made to look like the same, but they’re different. They’d just mashed them together, hoping someone wouldn’t notice. But Cor’s noticed. He’s outlining the lines of the grout with his fingers, leaving a trail of crimson. He’s noticed...

_C’mon, Leonis, focus…_

“Mnngh…” He moans out a protest to his own subconscious. The split in his head feels like someone’s cracked a hammer through it and is slowly jiggling it up and down. Cor swats at it, but there’s no hammer. “Hmmng…”

He still can’t feel his legs. Something about that just… stirs in his mind. He can’t feel his legs… he can’t…

“Help”. He doesn’t know if it’s in his mind or not, the echo of the word. But then it does play in his mind, again and again and again. _Help, help, help me… I’m sorry… I know I know…_

_Fucking hell kid, hold still, hold- no, don’t- just, fuck, Cid hold him down, fucking hell- Cor… Cor look at me… c’mon kid, c’mon, don’t--- a shattering, splintering, disgusting, terrible feeling. He feels electricity running through his leg, puncturing through with reckless agony. He screams and the voices scream, and he’s being held down and it’s terrible, and he’s cold and he can’t feel his legs, and he’s shaking, screaming, it’s terrible, and he can’t feel his legs, he can’t… he can’t…_

“Help…” he says it again. This time he knows it was out loud. “ _Fuck_ …”

There’s something aware in his mind now, something important. Help. He needs help. Yes.

His forehead is pressed against the white and black tile, _white and black, black and white_. _Four squares, three squares, they’re not the same_. Focus.

Cor’s able to push himself up into a sitting position, legs still useless (why, why, why, there’s no blade sticking out of his kneecap, all the way through to the other side, so why, why why…) He can’t think about it now. No. He needs help. Yes, _help_.

The room blurs, focus, _focus_. He has to swipe at his face, streaks of red now obfuscating his sight. He rubs against his eyelid, clearing it of blood. _C’mon, kid._

A beep from above. His phone. Yes. Of course. He needs to call someone. Someone to help.

But he can’t reach it. His legs won’t move and he can’t reach it. _Clarus_. He doesn’t know why the name runs through his head, but it does, repeating itself, _Clarus, Clarus I’m sorry I’m sorry…_

_Hold still, kid, hold still… c’mon… I gotcha… Cor… look at me, Cor… look at me… gods, you never listen… look at me…_

_Look me in the eyes boy…_

No _. No, no no no._

Cor has to shake his head several times which only intensifies the agony ripping through it.

_No, it’s ok. I’m ok._

He grips tightly on the chair next to him, pulling his weight forward. His legs are limp under him, so he practically crawls up the chair, torso leaning on the cushion. He reaches out an arm for the top of the counter, but his hands are slick and wet and he nearly topples again. _C’mon…_

He pulls all his weight up, bracing on his elbows as he throws his upper chest on top of the counter. His legs are still numb, useless. Cor grunts, releasing out a shaky breath. He’s starting to sweat. And it just runs with the blood, pouring into his eyes again. But his phone is there. His phone. _Help_. He needs help.

_Why can’t he feel his legs…?_

Reaching forward to grab the phone, Cor feels his head pulse, then- _bursting, white-hot, shards of glass shot through his skull, fuck, fuck, fuck._ He’s crying out loud, he realizes. And instinctually he’d grabbed at his head, upsetting his balance. But the phone’s in his hand. He’s ok. He has his phone.

So when he collapses backwards again, he doesn’t feel like such a failure. His phone. He has his phone.

A twist in his skull again; blinding, white and black, it hurts, gods _it hurts_.

“Help.” It comes out more feebly this time, small, afraid.

But he has his phone. He has it. He can call someone to help. But… gods… his mind wanders… confused. He’s so cold. Gods it’s so cold in here… the radiator… it’s not fixed. He never fixed it. It’s broken, it’s… the pattern isn’t right, it’s all… fractured. He’s back to staring at the tiles on the floor again.

 _Focus, Leonis_.

Right. His phone. Help.

It takes him a few tries to click open his contacts, his fingers are all slippery. But he finds it, scrolling down, but who… Clarus, right? Who he was gonna call… C, C…C… his finger pauses over one of the contacts and he stops, mind pulsing.

Yes. That’s right.

He clicks it without thinking.

Slumping his head back on the floor, Cor holds the phone to his ear, waiting.

It only takes about four seconds.

“Well, ain’t this just a kick in the guts. The hell you callin’ me for kid?”

“Cid.” Cor says.

Yes, it’s Cid. Had he meant to call Cid? He can’t remember. Still, there’s something there.

“You never fixed my radiator.”

A short silence, then- a bark of laughter.

“Well, shit. Here I was wonderin’ what I’d done ta piss you off, and well, you ain’t wrong, kid.” Another laugh. “Spose I never did then. You come ta chew me out for it now?” 

“Yeah, well, ‘s fucking cold.” Cor shivers, bottom lip dipping against the tile.

There’s a bit of a pause. “Shit, kid. Figured you woulda… I don’t know… figured it out fer yerself or somethin’ by now… hell…”

“Tried. ‘S fucking hard…”

“Well don’t let me be the only one ta tell ya, that’s pretty much par for the course! Ain’t nothin’ in life’s just gonna get handed to ya, boy. Thought you knew that more’n any of us…”

Cor slumps forward, closing his eyes for a second or two or ten. He doesn’t know. Cid’s silent on the other end.

“I… don’t know what to do…”

Another pause. “Aw, hell, kid. I… I ain’t the one ta be askin’ ‘bout all that psychology shit, remember?”

“You’re better th’n you think…” Cor’s words start to slur a bit. But he perks up. “Helped me out a lotta times…”

“Yeah, well…” He hears Cid huff on the other side.

“Like when I asked you for that thing, remember? The… person… you found all that info… rem’mber? You uh…really helped… even though I… I was kinda shit back then, but you sat me down after, I remember, hah, you were all serious… but you helped and you uh… you bought me a grape soda after…” Cor laughs, resting his cheek against the floor, phone tucked against his ear. “You really helped.”

The outtake of breath is longer this time. Cor can almost picture the old man tipping his head back, hand adjusting his hat, flustered. “Cor...”

Cor nods, despite his aching head. Yeah, that’s his name. “Mmm?”

“Listen, son… where’s all this comin’ from?”

“Dunno…” He traces a line of blood along the grout again. “Maybe… ‘s just the concussion…”

The breathing through the phone sounds like a sigh. Long, weary. “You need help kid?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok. Ok, kid. I’ll get ya some help.” He hears beeping sounds on the other end.

“Cid…”

“Ok, Cor… just hang tight…”

“I can’t feel my legs.” Cor lets out a chuckle.

Another breath. “Ok. Uh… just… just…”

Cor zones out for a minute, in between, where everything’s fuzzy and black and white, but he can hear Cid still, muffled, not quite clear. He’d dropped the phone. It’s lying next to his head, but he can still kind of hear it. In between. His head throbs.

The tinny voice in the background pulls him back “…you there? Just hang on tic more, ok… hey, Leonis? You hear me, son?”

“Yeah.” He says it out oud, he thinks. He shudders. “S’cold…”

“Godsdammit…”

Cor slips for a bit. Lost. Unthinking…

But then-

There are hands on his chest. Warm hands. Calm hands.

“Ok, ok, astrals’ fucking sakes…” One hand combs his hair back, the other reaches for his back. “Cor? Fucking hell, what happened? Cor, you ok?”

“Mmmn.” He nods and it makes it worse. He groans, eyes closed. “…Hit my head.”

“Yeah, I’d say. Sheesh…” Warm hands. Calm hands. “C’mon kid, let’s get you up.”

“Hey… ‘m…m’alright…”

A startled exhalation. “Ok, sure. Cor? Can you look at me, Cor?”

“Mmnggh…” His eyes are still closed.

“Cor I need you to look at me…” A tighter grip on his back. “Look at me kid, can you follow my fingers…. Look at me now-”

_Look at me, look at me… eyes that are blue blue blue, hands that get tighter, tighter… he doesn’t want to look…_

“Leonis, look at me!”

Cor blinks. His eyes take more than a few seconds to settle into focus. But when he looks up, the eyes that greet him are brown and warm and calm. Like the hands. The hands that guide him up into a sitting position, that make his back warm even when he’s so, so cold.

“Clarus.”

“Yeah. _Astrals_ , look at you. You really did a number on that fucking head of yours, sheesh.” He watches as Clarus presses something to his forehead. “Gods, this is bleeding a lot. I think you need stitches…”

Cor props up a bit more. It’s then that he realizes… he can feel his legs again. He doesn’t say anything about it to Clarus, just pinches the skin of his thigh through his sweatpants. Yeah, he can feel it.

“Ok, let’s get you up, yeah? You ok to stand?” Clarus puts more force into pushing him up. The motion causes his sweater to shift, exposing part of his stomach. Clarus pauses. “You fall on your stomach too?”

“What?” Cor grabs the sweater, pulls it down to hide the rash. “No…I…”

“Looks like you’re bleeding-”

“It’s fine. Clarus. I’m fine.” By this point Cor’s put all his effort into standing, leaning heavily on the older man. They’re close, almost hugging. At full height, Cor realizes… hey, he’s taller than Clarus now. He never noticed that happening. Doesn’t know when he stopped measuring.

He coughs lightly. “Think it’s just a minor concussion.”

Clarus huffs. “Yeah, well, I’m still taking you to the hospital. Come on.”

“Really Clar-”

“I’m not hearing it.” Gods, his voice sounds angry. “If you’d seen the message Cid sent me… gods, I thought… never mind what I thought. Let’s go.”

“Just… don’t take me to the Citadel. Go to the clinic just up here. Please. I don’t wanna… make a bigger deal about it, ok?” He doesn’t want Regis to find out, more like.

“Gods, kid.” Clarus shakes his head at him, something like pity in his face.

“I’m ok.”

“Grab your shoes. C’mon.”

Clarus ushers him to the door, huffing. “And why the fuck is it so cold in here?”

“Tried to fix it…” Cor’s dizzy as he attempts to lace up his boots. But the hand is on his back again. Steady.

“We’ll talk about it later.” The older man guides Cor out of the apartment, pausing to lock up. Then another angry huff. “What is this? Is someone harassing you?”

“Huh?”

Clarus nods at the sticky note on the door.

“No, uh…” Cor grabs it suddenly, holding it to his chest. “Don’t worry about it…”

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Cor ends up losing focus, and then he’s in the passenger seat of Clarus’s car, still holding the cloth to his head, but he thinks it isn’t bleeding anymore.

Clarus is staring fixedly at the road, mouth a thin line. He sees him spare him a glance every now and again, frown deepening.

“How does it feel?”

“Hmm?”

“Your head?”

“Ah… still aches, but not as bad as before. Think it’s stopped bleeding…”

“Good.”

More silence. Cor slumps in the seat, hugging his chest. The sticky note’s still clutched in his right hand, so he unfolds it. Bright pink. The message reads: _what’s your favorite candy bar???_

He feels a lump in his throat, suddenly nauseous. Letting out a sigh, he closes his eyes, head leaning into the leather seat.

“I’m taking you back to my place after.”

“What?” Cor sits up straighter. “Why?”

“Why do you think? How long has your heat been down? Huh? Think you can just go on treating yourself like shit and we won’t notice? We care about you kid-”

“Clarus, it’s- I’m fine. I know how to fucking take care of myself-”

“Do you?” The anger is palpable now. And Clarus is glaring at him, not even focused on driving.

“I’m _fine_.”

“You’ve had me worried fucking sick for months now… now I get this message outta nowhere saying… saying you're hurt, and… gods, look at you…” Another angry sound. “What a fucking mess…”

Cor doesn’t know what to say. He just grips the sticky note in his palm, crushing it slightly. He feels anger too. But he doesn’t know at what.

“I can take care of myself.” He says it again.

“Like I believe that…”

“I’m taller than you now.” Cor mutters, as if it makes a difference.

Clarus shoots him a look that he can’t quite read, then pulls into the hospital parking lot.

It’s a bit of a cluster-fuck trying to keep a low profile. Doesn’t help when Clarus just flashes his badge telling the nearest staff to find him a private room.

The nurse that takes Cor’s blood pressure keeps giving him that annoying look. And when he’s finished he stutters, saying “Are you really Cor the Immortal?”

Clarus pushes the guy away. “That’s enough. Go on!”

Cor sits there in the exam seat, note still clutched in his hand. He feels so utterly pathetic it’s actually painful. And he still doesn’t make eye-contact with Clarus, the older man just pacing the small room heatedly.

“I don’t want to leave my apartment.” Cor says after two minutes waiting for the doctor to come.

Clarus just grunts.

“I… I like it there.”

“Sure you do.”

“I mean it Clarus. I…” He swallows heavily. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” It’s then that the doctor appears, but the tautness that’s in his throat doesn’t lessen.

“Let me see. Blink. Ok, can you follow the light here?” Cor follows her instructions as well as he can. And he sits perfectly still as she begins stitching up his forehead. Not his first time. The scars on his chest prickle in response.

She hands him some gauze and surgical tape. “Just make sure to keep the wound clean, alright? You’ll have some heavy bruising for a few weeks and it might leave a scar, but the concussion shouldn’t last for more than a few days, ok?”

He nods. He knows.

Clarus says something quietly to the doctor, pulling her to the corner. Cor doesn’t really pay attention, but knows they keep looking at him, whispering. He hears a few words “… worried he might be…think he needs to talk to someone… I don’t know…”

Cor feels a sickening spike all up and down his body. He bows his head, a low, blooming heat stemming from his ribcage. _Shame_.

He barely registers as the doctor comes back over to him, asking a question.

“What?” he has to ask, he didn’t hear her. His voice barely sounds like his anymore.

“Mr. Leonis would you mind letting me check your chest? Just lift up your shirt, if you would.”

“What? No.” His voice takes on a hoarse edge.

“Cor, let her look-”

“Clarus, what…” He sounds frantic now. Hysterical. “I’m fine. I _told you_.”

“I just need to check-” Cor feels her hand reach out, grasping his shirt and he-

_Hands, grasping hands, hands on his chest, his face, in his hair, his eyes, his mouth…_

_Fuck_. He jolts up out of the chair, backing into a piece of equipment. It doesn’t help his head. He growls low. “Don’t touch me.”

“Ok, ok,” The doctor appears taken aback.

Clarus hovers over to him, arms wide, uncertain. “Cor. I’m sorry. It’s just… we’re worried about you-”

“Well don’t be!” He snaps back. “I’m _fine_.”

The look on Clarus’s face is unreadable once again. Cor just stands against the wall, hand gripping the gauze and the surgical tape and the sticky note. Shaking.

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Leonis.” The doctor attempts to placate him. “No one will touch you without permission. If you’ll allow me to speak with… Mr. Amicitia a moment…”

The two share glances, then head out the door leaving Cor behind.

He feels himself slump, nearly slipping down the wall. So he throws himself back on the exam chair, head in his hands. No, no, no.

_You’re better than this. You’re better than this._

_But… is he?_

Cor breathes as deeply as he can. _C’mon kid_. He unfurls the note from his palm. It’s all crumpled, but he smooths it out, flattens it on his thigh.

The memory that washes over him comes without any resistance.

_(C’mon kid, hold out your hands_... A little giggle… _Why?_ A pat on his head... _Whaddya mean why, cuz, I got a treat for you silly_ … There’s a squirming in his chest, and he feels his face crack open. A smile. He beams up… _For me?..._ _Yeah, kiddo, you want it or not?_ _…Yes, yes, yes!..._ _Yes, what?... Yes pleeeease..._ _Ok, hah, ok kiddo, here ya go_ … It’s a candy bar. Blue wrapper with a shiny red happy face. _Chuckle Crunch_. He holds it in his palm, excited… _No way, this one’s got stickers that come with it! Look!_... He opens the wrapper, chocolate sweetness filling his nose. There’s a white sheet with a sticker on it. Some kinda stupid looking face, but he grins at it, holds it up. _Look!_... _Yeah, that’s good. Kinda looks like this, eh?_... he watches as the face above contorts into a goofy looking grin, eyebrows angled down. He laughs. He laughs cuz it’s funny and he likes it. _Yeah, like this?_ He feels his face move, trying to make the face too. He’s laughing still. _Yeah, just like that_. And it’s nice, and the chocolate tastes good. There’s crunchy bits in it and he likes it. And when he gets another one, another one with the stickers, he takes the faces and he sticks them on an old magazine page, he lines them up in rows. And each time he gets a new one, they make the faces, and laugh. And when he holds out his hands to get his treat, he doesn’t even care so much about the candy. No. He likes the faces. He likes the way the blue eyes sparkle, look down at him, pat his head and laugh with him. He likes it.)

“Cor?”

“Mm?” His head’s still held in his hands, hunched forward, and he’s trying to ignore the pressure behind his eyes.

“Hey.” A warm hand on his back. “You ready to go?”

“Mmm.” He doesn’t look up, still caught up in… some kind of emotion. He doesn’t want to give it a name.

“I’ll… I’ll take you back to your place for now…”

“Thank you.” He nods once. Then stands up. The hand claps his back, steadying him. Warm. Calm.

“Sheesh, you are taller than me, huh?”

Cor laughs.

“We’ll, uh… we’ll talk about this later…ok?”

He nods again. But his mind’s somewhere else.

“C’mon, kid.”

Cor lets his friend walk him back to the entrance. But he halts suddenly, halfway there. Clarus almost bumps into him. “You got fifty cents?”

“Huh?”

“The, uh… machine.” He motions to the black vending machine that’s to his right.

“Oh, uh… you hungry? Should’ve said something…” Clarus digs into his pocket for his wallet.

“It’s not for me.” He holds out his hands for the coins.

Cor walks over to it, puts the money in, clicks the button for the right number. He bends to pick it up, then pauses again.

He puts more coins in, waits for it to come out. Grabbing the soda can, he feels that it’s cold in his palm. He straightens, then nods again. “Ok.”

Clarus has that indecipherable expression still. But he puts an arm around him, guiding him back to the car.

They drive, and the older man doesn’t say anything. Not when Cor just sits there, slouching in his seat, sipping his grape soda, eyes closed.

And when they get to his apartment complex too. He doesn’t say anything as he watches Cor pause at the first apartment by the stairwell, pull out the surgical tape and slap a candy bar on the door. He doesn’t say anything.

But it doesn’t matter. They’ll talk later.


	8. Chapter 8

Cor sits on the floor with his head in his hands for what’s probably a good long while. Has himself a proper little angst session.

At some point he makes it to the couch and naps for a bit. Restless still. But he drags over two quilts and he’s comfortable and his head doesn’t hurt as much.

Clarus left him soon after dropping him off. Said he needed to head back to work but he’d check in with a phone call or two. Promised him they’d talk. _Soon_. Cor doesn’t want to think about it.

He turns on the tv, flips through the channels. A part of him hopes to catch a bit of Sleepless Dreamers (gods; he must be fucked beyond all recognition if this is what he’s come to). In the end, he settles on a show that has some elderly lady demonstrating how to properly prepare a turkey carcass for stock. It’s just vulgar enough to appeal to that twisted side of himself; the way she severs the neck bone, the flesh and the skin. Maybe he is mentally disturbed after all.

He’s in between half-napping, half-paying attention when there’s a beep from the kitchen floor. His phone. Clarus said he might call, but Cor didn’t think it would be this soon. The device is still sitting on the tile floor. There’s a small puddle of blood next to it. He shakes his head.

The message isn’t from Clarus though. As he looks at the screen, Cor cringes, and quietly mutters “ _Shit_.”

Then in a comically fast turn-around, he begins shoving through his wardrobe for his pants, a better shirt, then his bag; the books he’d borrowed from the library, his notebooks. He’s half a leg in his uniform pants before he remembers to reply.

_Yeah. Sorry, I’ll be there. Just running late. 20 minutes._

He hadn’t realized the day. Saturday afternoons at two with Scientia. It’s already 2:30. Shit.

Cor pauses in the kitchen just enough to chug a glass of milk, then just a second more to run his finger over the sharp, razor-like corner of the counter edge. He’d blame his tardiness on the head injury if he has to. Not that he really feels like explaining it to Scientia of all people.

He’s already seated in his car, reversing onto the busy street before wondering if it’s really best to be driving in his condition. But the headache’s mostly gone from the painkillers; just a stinging itch along his forehead under the bandage. He’d be fine.

Linus Scientia is definitely not amongst the most formidable of people Cor’s encountered in his young but eventful life; still, there’s something about the guy that makes Cor feel endangered. Scientia barely gives more than a glance at his sweaty, unpunctual arrival; but Cor’s pretty much shaking in his boots.

“Sorry. Sorry. Just got preoccupied, I didn’t forget, I promise-”

“Quite alright.” Linus holds up a hand and instantly Cor stops his blundering tirade. “Let’s get to work shall we?”

Cor nods, still a bit breathless.

When Regis had approached Cor, asserting his suggestion that he… let’s say, broaden his breadth of knowledge (his words), it was hard to not take it as an insult. Even still, Cor has a hard time focusing during his sessions with Scientia, mostly because that feeling of inadequacy is laced in every textbook, every social exercise, every question he has to ask because he’s too stupid, too common to understand.

They’d agreed upon meeting once a week in the Citadel Library, which is where Cor practically ran to in such a haste that he’s still catching his breath. He pulls out his books, nods again, listens as Linus starts the lesson.

“So I believe last we left off was a discussion on the absenteeism of Insmonian influence in the outlands and how that has led to a bit of a decline in infrastructure and development, yes?”

Cor just nods dumbly again. He flips through his book, not even looking for a specific page. He tries to take as many notes as he can make sense of. That being said, Linus is a pretty good teacher. Sure he looks at Cor with an air of somewhat… scholarly condescension. But he always explains things thoroughly enough. And there are only a handful of words Cor doesn’t understand now.

Halfway through a debate about whether Lucian business holders should be entitled to Insomnian-exclusive practices, Cor realizes Linus keeps giving him concerned glances over the pages of his book.

“Well it’s really not fair though, is it?” Cor continues, hesitantly. “I mean… keeping it all within the Capital seems… kinda greedy.” Gods, his eloquence could use some work, but he thinks he’s getting it.

“Yes, yes. There is definitely an argument for inclusivity, you’re not wrong…” Linus pauses, peering up again.

“I just think… uh, relying on outlands for resources and such… it just doesn’t seem right that they’d be shut off from what we’ve got here, I don’t know…”

By this point Linus is positively staring at him. The man coughs into his hand lightly. “I daresay Leonis, I would not suggest you aggravate your… ah, wound, in such a way…”

Cor holds in a breath. He takes stock, and realizes that he’s got his head propped on one hand, and that hand’s been slowly scratching up the side of his bandaged forehead, twisting in the fabric, itching underneath. “I…uh…”

He pulls his hand back and sees that there’s blood on his fingertips. Linus looks slightly nauseated.

“Sorry, I… I didn’t realize…”

“No, I only just… you were quite vigorous with it, I didn’t want…” It’s rare that Linus sounds as flabbergasted as Cor usually feels. “I… here. Take this.”

He hands him a fluttery handkerchief, pulled from his breast pocket. Cor just holds it, rubbing it between two thumbs. “I don’t…It’ll get all ruined…”

“Please, I insist.” Linus smiles and it isn’t unkind. Cor still feels his skin prickle. “Would you mind me asking…?” He points to his own head, enquiring.

Linus doesn’t seem pushy, but Cor catches himself on the defensive. “I uh… hit my head. It’s nothing.” He holds the cloth to his forehead if only to help hide his face. He feels his cheeks burning.

“Alright.” Linus gives that smile again, somewhat warped with pity. Cor slumps further down his seat.

The rest of the lesson is a struggle for him. Now super aware of his twitchiness, Cor has to keep his hands occupied by various means; holding them together under the table, flipping through the book for no apparent reason, doodling in the margins of his notebooks. And his attention span takes a blow as well. He often finds himself unable to draw up answers to Linus’s questions, whole minutes of time just spent zoning out.

He thinks Linus can tell he’s pretty much checked out. The man looks exasperated when he’s met with silence for a fifth time. Cor just bows his head, ignoring the steady biting feeling from his stitches, and the worse one that’s slowly eating his insides.

“Alright, then. Let’s say we shift towards current events, eh?” If anything, Linus’s perseverance is intimidating. Cor doesn’t know how the man is able to maintain his composure with such a shitty student.

He watches as Linus pulls out a stack of newspapers, magazines. It’s something they’d done before, read articles, delved into present affairs. Cor often finds himself surprised that there’s so much shit happening every day.

“So… let’s see here. Ah! Testimonies from the urban refugee developments. This should be something you’re familiar with.”

Cor feels his stomach twist. There’s a picture of a family, Galahdian, holding out what looks like traditional food dishes. The headline reads _Spicing up the Neighborhood_. “I haven’t spent much time in those types of communities…”

“Perhaps. But your time on the frontlines no doubt lets you shape an impression of what it must be like, yes?” Linus nods encouragingly. “Tell me, did you experience much of Galahdian culture during your deployment?”

Cor feels his hands grip the sides of the chair forcefully. The tendons on the backs of his hands strain, tense. “I, uh…”

_Green, green everywhere, green and brown, the smell, the sunlight, the warmth… the smell, the bodies, sunlight on their skin…a carcass with a tiny neck, flesh and bones, green green, brown and red…_

“I… no. Not much.” He swallows, but finds that he can’t. The thing in his throat just presses. “A little hard when you’re dragging people back to a med tent even though you know they’re already corpses, missing arms, sometimes a head, y’know…”

Linus stares at him in an entirely different way now.

“There was this one guy though, ha,” Cor lets out a sick little laugh. “Big Galahdian guy, all these tattoos. He uh… he promised he’d teach me how to do a Nif necktie, that’s where you slit some Imperial bastard’s throat and pull the tongue out through the gap, y’know…”

Linus doesn’t know. That’s very clear. But Cor doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the look he’s getting, doesn’t know what he’d call that particular expression. Still; it’s something he knows about that Linus doesn’t. It’s something he wouldn’t find in any of these fucking textbooks. Cor just slumps further in his chair, rests his head on one hand again, looking at the newspaper. Half-present. Half… far away. 

There’s a cough, a few flustered sounds, and then Linus starts talking again, about some article relating the prices of real estate in downtown Insomnia.

Cor draws circles around all the faces in the pictures he sees. Lazy lines. Smiles. Frowns. One sleazy looking guy gets a big fat moustache. He’s beginning to think Linus might just pack it in early, daunted by his lack of focus (and maturity for that matter), when he feels the man pause at his side. “Ah.”

Cor doesn’t bother seeing what’s piqued his interest; he’s drawing sunglasses on all the kids at some charity event from last week.

“This might be a little more… _relevant_ , to you.” Linus tosses a magazine in front of him.

There’s a single second where Cor looks at it and doesn’t feel anything. Then-

That twisting from his insides before- now it stretches taut under his skin, pulling but also expanding. A noise lodges itself in his throat, suffocating under the tension.

The magazine cover has a picture of a kid… a boy. A flop of hair that’s more blond than brown. A smile that’s more mischievous than happy. Eyebrows drawn up in curiosity, mouth slightly open, like he’s about to start taking to someone. He’s holding a wooden sword, and on his shoulder is a hand, and that hand has an arm, has a body, and a face too.

“Perhaps they’re on to something, eh?”

He shakes himself as the voice pulls him back. The title on the page reads: _Prodigy Since Childhood?_ The feeling lingers still, in every nerve ending, in every breath he struggles to produce; Cor can’t seem to look away though.

He traces around the boy’s face with his fingertip; there’s dried blood under the nail, and a faint crusty residue is left in its wake. He coughs. “I’m not so sure.”

“Come now. Don’t be modest. It isn’t quite accurate though, is it? _Prodigy_ implies there was no real effort put into the end result. I’ll give you more credit than that.” A slight nudge against his shoulder. Cor’s whole body moves with it. 

“I guess.”

Linus continues along a similar line, something about complimenting his resolve, his overcoming of circumstance.

Cor just stares at the picture. The boy. Not the other face. The boy with bright eyes, whose grip on the sword looks steady, firm, even at age seven. He picks up his pen. Draws a frown over his funny smile. And frowns too. He won’t draw on the other face though. Not even a stupid moustache. No. He won’t even look at it.

_Where did they get this picture…?_

Linus has shifted the conversation back to current affairs, and Cor nods to pretend like he’s listening. He doesn’t even realize he’s started scratching, but Linus gives him that pitiful look again. Cor places his head in his hands, nodding still, making soft sounds of affirmation. He considers banging his head on the table but reckons that might make Linus quit on him altogether.

He nods when Linus says something, and from the guy’s look he can tell that it wasn’t a yes or no question. The magazine’s still in front of him. Taunting him. He wants to scream. He wants to rip it to shreds. No. Focus. _Steady… steady kid, yeah that’s right…_

He sits up suddenly, back hard against the chair. Linus looks startled. “Was there… something you needed clarification on…?”

Cor shakes his head, then changes it to a nod. “No, I… uh yeah… Yeah, actually. Could you help me out with something…?”

Linus’s apprehension is still evident, but he nods encouragingly.

“Could you uh… A friend of mine wants to know… could you tell me about King Neratius’s decision to impose external trade regulations and tariffs and how that… affected the Capital…?”

The look he gets now- Linus is a pretty reserved guy, but this afternoon is just a study in his ever-increasing befuddlement. His eyebrows shoot out from under his glasses. Still, he tries to maintain his composure. “I, ah, yes alright. If… if you’d like to discuss history once more…”

Cor nods vigorously, because he just desperately needs to focus on something else. Something less… _relevant_.

And even though he understands jack-shit of what Linus is saying, he listens, he takes his notes, and he nods.

At the end of the lesson, Cor packs his things. He rubs a closed fist against his temple, but the thing still itches fiercely. Linus lingers longer than he usually does, standing awkwardly. He surprises Cor by placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “I don’t mean for our sessions to be… too taxing, you know, Leonis…”

“I, uh...” His great statement for the afternoon.

“I just don’t want you to feel any sense of… requirement, is all. This is just for your general benefit. If you’re feeling any pressure of obligation, we can…”

“No. It’s fine. It’s great, actually.” Cor nods, but he means it. “You’re a good teacher.”

Linus beams for a second. His smile suits him better than his studious sneer.

“Well, that’s a reassurance.” He nods too, makes his way towards the exit. “I… ah. The invitation still stands. If you’d like to join in some… social activity. Your, ah, _friend_ could come along too.”

Cor makes a confused face. _Friend?_

“Your… acquaintance with the queries about King Neratius’s reign?”

 _Oh_. Cor snorts. “Yeah, uh… something tells me she’d be a little… outta place… around you guys.” He laughs. “But, uh… yeah. I’ll think about it.”

Linus nods again. “Cheers.”

He leaves and Cor gathers the rest of his notes. The magazine’s still on the table, but he leaves it there. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore.

There’s a few minutes reprieve when he’s just walking the halls back to his car. Trying not to think. Not about the kid with the funny face, and the sword. Not about the hand on his shoulder. The face. 

He stumbles into a sudden weight, almost trips backwards.

Cor thinks he might’ve zoned out and just walked into someone, but no. The person walked into him. Straight up in his personal space, grabbing his collar. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I, uh…” He blinks quickly.

“You’re supposed to be resting, you dumbass. Here I was thinking you were taking it easy, then I get a call from staff saying they saw your car below-”

“I’m fine. Just had to go to a lesson...” Cor steps back, but the hand remains on his collar.

“You have a concussion!”

“Clar, it’s fine-”

“Yeah, you say it’s fine. You always say _it’s fine_. How’m I supposed to trust that, huh?” Clarus is breathing heavily now. “Huh? When I find you looking like you’re half-dead in your own godsdamn apartment? Your ice-cold fucking apartment? What, you thought you’d be ok there? That it was all _fine_?”

“Clarus. Don’t.” Cor takes a few more steps back, but the older man is blocking his exit. He sighs, bringing his hands up over his eyes. “I don’t wanna talk about this now. Not here.”

The two of them are standing in a corridor near the atrium. There’s more than a couple curious faces casting eyes at them now.

“Well sometimes intervention is necessary.”

Cor brings his voice to an angry whisper. “So you’re just gonna assume that, what? I can’t take care of myself anymore? I’m telling you _it’s fine_. You have no idea-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Clarus isn’t lowering his tone.

“Clearly, cuz you’re not fucking listening to me-”

“Hey!” The hand is back on his collar and Clarus comes in close, a heated expression on his face. “You think this is some kind of joke? Huh? That we’re all just watching you tear yourself apart and fucking laughing about it?”

“You might as well be” Cor mutters, looking down. Seething with sudden fury.

“Hey!” The grip tightens. “Look at me! I’m trying to _help you_ , kid.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t!” This comes out louder than his earlier words, but he doesn’t regret it. He feels his blood boil, hot under his prickling skin.

Clarus leans back, but he still has him by the collar. “You don’t get to make that choice.”

“Well I don’t need you to fucking _babysit_ me, Clarus.”

“You think that’s what this is?” The older man laughs but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah, we’re all just pulling you along like you’re, what? Some kid we grabbed off the streets and now we’re stuck with? Some burden?”

“That’s not what I said-”

“No, maybe you’re right. Gods know you still act like a fucking child.”

There’s a heavy silence after that.

Cor closes his eyes, grits his teeth so hard in his mouth he thinks they might crack.

Clarus pulls back, releasing his grip. He lets out a long sigh. Then places a tentative hand on Cor’s shoulder. “You don’t get to choose who cares about you, kid.”

A flash, _a hand on a shoulder, a face, a wicked smile_. No. He doesn’t get to choose. He doesn’t get to choose when they stop caring either.

Cor aggressively shakes the hand off. He’s looking down, fist clenching painfully at his side. “You don’t get to choose how I live my life.”

An irritated huff. “Can’t you just admit that you need help-”

“Don’t...”

“I’m only saying all this cuz I’m worried about you, kid-”

“Don’t call me that…”

“You know it’s not your fault. Maybe you just need to talk to someone…”

“Stop it-” The anger flares. Gods, he wants to punch something.

“Listen, kid-” There’s a hand on his shoulder again and he wrenches his arm away, twisting backwards.

“ _Don’t_. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t call me _kid_.” He’s backing up now. Shaking his hands around, frantic. He feels like his fingers are going numb.

“Cor.”

He looks up at Clarus and wishes he hadn’t. His friend has his arm still outstretched and the look on his face is full of disappointment. Cor wants to throw up. 

“Just…” Cor waves a hand as he starts walking in the other direction. “Just… forget about it alright. I’m… it’s… I’m fine.”

“Cor, wait-”

He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t look back. He just walks the other way, skin prickling, strained over his simmering anger. 

He gets to his car. It’s the long way around to the parking lot. But he gets there.

He sits with his head on the wheel, systematically smacking it hard along the handle. His stitches are probably split, but it doesn’t matter.

He sits. Then he drives.

His anger transforms as he drives. It settles in his stomach, heavy, but not as fluid. Not as likely to rise to the surface. But still there. Always there.

Walking up the steps of his apartment reminds him. He stops at the first door. Knocks lightly.

The curly mop of red hair peeks from around the doorframe. “Whaaa, Mr. Cor!” She peers up, eyes widening. “Woah, you’re head’s all messed up! How’d you go and do that?”

Cor’s got his textbook in his hand and in a manic moment, he brings the thing up, whacks himself on the forehead with it. “Too much studying.”

Agnes just gives him a look of wild confusion. Then she nods somewhat understandingly.

“Got some shit for your essay question.” He gestures to the book again.

“Cool!”

And with that, Cor finds himself invited to dinner at the Blazek’s again.

It’s nice, he thinks. It’s nice to be distracted.

Agnes immediately pulls him inside, cheering about how she’s gonna have the best essay in class now, and that no one believes her when she says she’s friends with Cor the Immortal. _Friends_. It’s what Linus referred to her as before. And Cor doesn’t even question it. Yeah. They’re friends.

A twist in his gut at the thought of Clarus; yeah, sometimes friends could hurt you too. But he tries not to think about it. No. Not with Agnes rambling about some kid from school who tried to sneak his pet snake into class. He laughs.

There’s that moment of hesitation though, when Lenore spots him. Concerned eyes flicking up to his forehead. Cor kind of rubs it without really meaning too. He smiles at Lenore, gives a nod.

He doesn’t ask for her help. Yet she gives it. That’s the way of it (he’d call himself a hypocrite, telling off Clarus for offering to help him, if he really cared. But maybe it’s the way she does it; warm hands, a calm, gentle smile. He just won’t call it that. _Help_. He doesn’t need help, he needs…comfort.)

The smell from the kitchen, the chatter of Agnes at his side. Comfort. It’s nice. He doesn’t protest as Lenore consoles him, offers to get him something for his head.

“I’ve got this salve I use for minor wounds ‘n such.” She bats a hand. “Comes in handy all the time with this trouble-maker.” The fond smile that follows lights something in Cor’s stomach. Something that overtakes the anger, if just for a second.

He lets Lenore peel back the gauze, watches her tsk as she wipes away the crusted blood. “Silly boy. Ripped through these stitches nice and good.”

He closes his eyes. Allows himself to feel the cool spread of the salve as the kind woman applies it, like a gentle whisper of cold air on his skin. _Silly boy_. It doesn’t even prickle much anymore.

“Thank you.” He says.

“You just try taking better care of yourself, son.”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

Agnes tugs on his arm again and he finds himself being pulled to the kitchen table to help her with her essay. It’s hard work, trying to interpret Cor’s sloppy notes on Linus’s lecture. But they manage to scrap up something that amounts to equal parts eleven-year-old and esteemed scholar. At least Agnes seems proud of it.

“Oh, oh, oh, Mr Cor!” She’s got that wild look that makes her look somewhat like a crazy person. It’s still kind of endearing. “Guess what? Our class is gonna put on a play, ‘n I’m gonna have a major starring role!”

“Oh, yeah?” Cor leans forward, curious. “Which play is that?”

She takes a theatrical pause, deepening her voice, arms outstretched. “ _The Curse of the Torch-bearer_.”

Cor raises an eyebrow at her dramatics. “That the one about the uh… what’s his name? The fire guy?”

“Ifrit!” She proclaims, hands spastically jerking around her head. “Duh! That’s who I’m gonna be!”

“What, for real?” Cor laughs.

“Hey now! Some people say I only got the part cuz Ricky Crescendum had ta drop out cuz he’s got chicken pox, but I like to think it was from my own natural, special talents, thank you very much!” She does a silly little bow.

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“You should know! Everyone says how you’ve got all these… like really cool talents and stuff. Like you’re just naturally… like, the coolest.”

He groans, burying his head in his hands. “I don’t know about that…”

“No, no. I got it on good authority.” She thrusts out a thumbs-up. “Everyone’s super jealous that we’re friends. Even though they say they don’t belieeeve me…”

“Don’t let them tell you otherwise, kid.” Cor peeks at her through his fingers. “And don’t let anyone judge you based on… talent, or whatever. Talent’s bullshit. It’s hard work that you should strive for, yeah?”

She looks skeptical, but then she beams at him. She does a stupid fist-punching thing in the air. “Right! I’m gonna work super hard and be the best one in the play for sure!”

“That’s the spirit.” Cor leans back, somewhat satisfied. The smile that lingers on his face feels alien, but he doesn’t try to scare it away. “Wanna give me a preview then?”

“Oh, oh ok!” Pretty much the whole spectrum of enthusiasm flashes across Agnes’s face, in her whole person really. But she focuses intently, it’s comical, her eyebrows draw together, her shoulders hunch a bit. She is a natural. 

And yeah, as she reads through her lines, with a surprisingly gruff, droll, voice, Cor thinks it’s cheesy as shit. But he’d blame it on the script.

She asks him to read for the other parts, and Cor finds himself laughing close to tears as the two of them butcher this supposedly dramatic scene. The voices he chooses- Agnes keeps scrunching her face trying to remain stoic, but when Cor tries to read for a female’s part, she bursts out laughing.

“What? That’s just what the line says… look!” He bends over, pointing at the paper as he tries to stifle his laughter. “Look… Alencia says _with passion_ , how the hell else is that supposed to sound?”

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he’s shit at it, it makes her smile.

It makes his friend smile, and that’s nice.

And maybe some of that comes back; that… mischievousness, that slanted, funny grin, _silly boy_. But he doesn’t push it back. He lets himself smile. And it helps. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *graphic imagery in the first part*

_He’s buried under layers and layers. Each one he pulls away, arms aching from the weight. Blankets. Piled on top of him. He thinks he might suffocate, desperate to reach the surface. There’s a light, dim through the layers of fabric. But he can see it. He can almost taste the sunlight._

_He needs to reach it. He needs to breathe._

_Finally Cor rips through, the last blanket pulled apart as his hands tear through it. There’s red left on his fingertips. The blanket weeping blood at his feet. But he’s free. And he can breathe._

_Then the blankets twist around his ankles, tightening, locking him from moving. He feels terror build in his throat like an electric current._ Don’t scream _._

_He’s wrenched forward, falling on his face- hard impact, loud ringing in his ears, dirt; in his eyes, in his mouth. He wants to scream._

_The hands find him. They always do._

_Cor’s swarmed by the crawling fingers; they drag him forward in the dirt, he’s kicking, he’s screaming now. They don’t stop. They dig their fists in, nails like tiny claws shredding his clothes off._

_He screams but they don’t stop. He’s hauled, pitched forward then rolled- down, down, dirt everywhere. He can’t see._

_He stops because there’s something blocking him. Something cold, dirty, something that smells like the worst kind of horror he couldn’t even conceive. He tries to hold his breath, but he can’t, because the hands rake at his skin, penetrating, and he’s screaming again, eyes closed, body attempting to curl inward. They pull at his limbs, stretching him apart, open._

_He tries to move the weight at his side, so he can roll away, away from the hands, from the biting. It’s cold, so cold in his grasp, and he’s blind. He can’t open his eyes. He knows he shouldn’t._

_But he does anyway._

_And sees not one, but many. Many bodies. Broken. Small. Arms and legs bent like branches, all piled in a tangled heap. Glowing in the afternoon sun._

_He’s got his hand wrapped around the arm of one, one that’s tiny and cold, with its mouth ripped open, leaking blood onto the dirt, with a hand that has no fingers, with hair that’s more blond than brown, and he’s tiny, so tiny. And it’s wrong. Cor knows it. He shouldn’t be here. This boy. It’s all wrong._

_He pushes on the boy’s still chest, beating hands on a ribcage that collapses inward with no resistance._ No. Wake up.

 _He slams his face forward onto the boy’s body as the nails start stripping away his skin._ No. No please. You have to wake up. Wake up kid. Please…

_But the hands have got him now._

_They drag him away from the boy,_ no no no, don’t leave him here, no no, not like this _… they flip him over onto his back and Cor feels a limb under his spine, a foot, a tiny shoulder maybe. He’s screaming still._

 _And the hands carve into him, splitting his skin open and he_ screams _._

No no no please…

 _The boy, the cold boy, he moves at his side, he’s crawling towards Cor,_ no no no don’t _…_

_The boy brings his fingerless hands forward, digging into the flesh of Cor’s torso. His eyes have no light but they’re blue blue blue._

_Cor tries to pull away, wrenching his neck so hard he thinks it might snap off, he digs his feet into the dirt screaming, back curving upwards; but the hands hold him down. They crush him with their relentlessness._

_He feels the fingerless hands enter his chest cavity, feels them spread themselves on his ribcage, then pressure, then-_ a splitting, world-stopping crack _. His head snaps back in the dirt, he’s nearly blind and voiceless from the agony of it._

No, please…

_It doesn’t stop._

_The boy wades his hands through the gore and blood seeping out of Cor, searching, searching. Cor’s eyes are screwed shut, but he feels it, he feels it happening. He feels the blood on his hands. He feels the sharp corner of his splintered bone scrape against his wrist, he feels something cold and solid beneath all the carnage. He pulls it._

_It pulses._

_He opens his eyes and the boy is gone. Instead, his own hands are buried part way through his own chest. And he’s the one searching, pulling the object from his devastated ribcage._

_It’s shiny and he pulls it more. There’s a chain, being wrenched from the depths of his chest bone, it snags on some of the ribs making a clanking sound. He pulls harder._

_The object is free. He can barely see it through the tears in his eyes, but it’s there. In his hand._

_The other hands now, the tiny hands, they pat lightly on his skin, they push the hair off his forehead, whispering, they wipe the tears from the corner of his eyelid._

_He holds the object. And he rubs away the blood._

_It’s a heart._

_A silver heart. On a silver chain. It catches the sunlight and it glows._

Did you find it?

_They whisper. They hold his head down, the dirt feels soft now._

_He feels a weight. A blanket thrown on top of him._

I don’t know…

_Then another one, and another. The sunlight gets dimmer, farther away._ No, this isn’t it, this can’t be it _…_

 _Another blanket. It’s getting heavier. It’s too heavy now._ Stop. It’s enough _._

_Another and another._

Please, no. Stop…

_Another is dropped and he feels his breath strangle in his throat._ No no no I can’t breathe _…_

 _The hands keep piling blankets._ No no no I’m under here! _He screams._ I’m here!

_It presses harder, wedging him against the cold hard ground._ Please. No. Don’t leave me here…

_It’s dark. So dark. Another layer and he can’t even sense the sun anymore. He tries to draw breath and he can’t._

_He’s screaming, and there are tears rolling down his face again, and the cold metal of the heart in his hands starts to heat as he clutches it. It’s the only thing he has. But it’s burning him now. Burning a mark on his palm._

Help! _He wants to scream it but he can’t._

Help me…

_And maybe this is the worst thing: that he still thinks there’s someone out there, someone who will hear his call, run to him, hold out a strong arm to pull him out, place it on his shoulder and smile at him, say_ what’re you doin’ down there, kid? _and hold him, warm, so warm._

_But he’s alone._

_And no one’s coming._

_So when the last breath leaves his body, he knows it’s all he has; this body, this heart._

And he wakes up shaking. Cold, so cold, and he holds himself; because that’s what he has. He holds his body, arms embracing, head tucked into his knees as he draws himself closer, small, fragile. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be warm again. But he holds himself still. 

He stays like that a long time.

It’s late, or early, he thinks. Still very dark outside. His apartment is silent, stagnant. There’s a heaviness to it; the stillness. But he lets it wrap around him, encompassing. There’s a buzz in his nerves that just fuels the weight of it all. Like a drone; silent and loud at the same time. He doesn’t fall back to sleep, doesn’t want to. He just sits there. Holding himself.

Eventually he wanders up. Pulls on his denim jacket, slips on his sneakers.

He wants to leave. Go somewhere. He doesn’t know.

The stillness follows him though. And he doesn’t try to shake it off. He just lets it rest on him, a weight.

His first thought is to stop by the Blazek’s place; but he immediately recognizes that as stupid (it’s the middle of the fucking night, gods’ sakes). Plus he really doesn’t want Agnes to see him like this. Broken. Lost. There’s still tear tracks on his cheeks. He wants her to think he’s stronger than this ( _the coolest_ , she would say). Yeah, he’d like to be the coolest if he could.

Cor shakes his head. And he goes to his car.

There’s something about it; his car. It’s a vessel for him to just… lose awareness, maybe. The leather on his back, the thick air that sits inside it. He doesn’t feel present. But it’s not a bad thing. 

He sits in the parking garage a long time. He doesn’t really know. It doesn’t matter.

At some point he starts driving. Not even realizing it.

There’s a tiny crest of color seeping over the city buildings. Not bright enough for sunrise, but maybe soon. It’s that in-between. And everything is covered in the heaviness. It’s still. He feels like a part of it.

So he drives a bit. Stops at a gas station. Buys himself some cigarettes and chocolate milk. And he sits there. And watches the light change. Deep, leaden purples, sharp blue-black. Then warmth. Yellow and gold. It’s only brief though. As the sun crests the sky, it fills the air with a cold, empty, colorless blue. He smokes his cigarette and sticks his head out the window. Yeah. It’s cold. But there’s a heater in his car that works, so he doesn’t feel so shitty. He drinks his milk. Drives to the Citadel.

There’s been something buzzing under his skin all morning. Since he woke up shaking. He doesn’t think his body’s stopped shaking since, and he should be concerned about it, but he’s felt it before. Blood-buzz. 

He feels heavy and light at the same time. Like a spark might make his whole insides ignite, but he’d just stand there, grounded, unable to budge.

He can’t ignore it much longer.

As he walks up to the Citadel, the back entrance to the training rooms, he nods at the guards posted there, even as they give him a perplexed look. He’s still wearing his sleep clothes and that ratty jacket. But they don’t stop him.

He makes his way to one of the empty drill halls. It’s early. No one here yet. His blood surges. There’s something like disappointment; maybe he wanted to fight a real person (it’s always better that way). Maybe he should call Clarus and they can attack each other with more than just petty words. He doesn’t think that’s such a good idea, but it tempts him still. 

Still- he has to do something. He goes to his locker and is glad there’s some clothes in there. A pair of shorts that he rarely wears, and a long sleeve shirt that he quickly shrugs over his other top (he doesn’t want to look at his chest right now).

Cor lets himself close his eyes, stretch out his back. Coughs a little. He still feels cold.

Even with his blood boiling.

But he lets it overtake; that feeling. It’s something he doesn’t want to give a name to. Because he’s afraid of it (and maybe that’s all it is; _fear_. But knowing that just makes it worse). Whatever the feeling is, it has permanent residence in every nerve in his body. He lets it drown him, just a second. Then he moves.

And he fights.

Just him versus the practice dummies, but gods, he gives them a show.

Cor knows he’s good at fighting. Everyone knows he’s good at fighting. But it’s more than that. He has to think so. Because in moments like these, it goes beyond just physical prowess. The way he moves, the way his mind channels in, focusing. He doesn’t fuel it with petty things; the reasons, the unfairness, the _pain_ of it all. No. He crafts it into something else. Muscle and strength. Quick. Precise.

He’s barely even sweating as he draws his sword across the body. He likes the way his arms move, extensions of physical deliberation. Each strike has power behind it. Real power. It’s almost palpable.

His blood surges him forward, he doesn’t even have to think.

And that’s what he loves about it (gods; he’s moving so fast, and his blood is screaming, but he’s _not thinking_. Not in the way that he hates at least).

He can barely acknowledge the other presence in the room, he’s so focused. In another mindset. One that can only be attained when he lets his honed fury surpass all other emotions.

But he does stop eventually. Breathes raggedly as he shakes his legs out. Drawing his arms across each other, muscles pulling. He feels the eyes on him.

“You lost?” He tips his head back, stretching his neck. He gets a look at the intruder, big looking kid, maybe around his age. He thinks he saw him in a couple training seminars before. Doesn’t remember his name.

“No sir.” A surprisingly gruff voice. “Just getting in some early practice.”

“Ah.” Cor drawls. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Cor continues stretching then moves to start kicking exercises. There’s a balance there that captivates him. The way he steps with one foot, brings the other leg up. So much power in each strike, but the foot on the ground is steady still. Even when he’s rocking with motion from the kick. He’s solid.

He’s aware that the other guy is still in the room, doing exercises of his own. But it doesn’t distract him too much. It’s a personal thing. Him and his body. He doesn’t even have to conjure up instructions or anything. He just moves. 

He kicks the same spot over and over, twisting his body into jumps every now and then. Spinning in the air. He likes the feeling of the impact. Likes the tender pain it causes.

At some point he steps back, breathing slow. Deep, steady breaths. He’s tired, but he doesn’t think he’s breathed this well in a long time. There’s something different about it; each breath pulls in his chest, and there’s a pain behind it, but they feel… necessary. Each breath is important to his exercise.

The other guy is running through the motions of a typical training routine. Cor should know. He’s the one that designed it. He catches himself eyeing the guy, checking out his form, his strength. There’s a calculated power to each of his movements. It’s not unimpressive. But Cor can think of a few ways the guy can improve his stances.

Noticing his gaze, the other guy stops short a bit, looking up at Cor.

“Sorry.” Cor says, rolling his shoulders around. “Didn’t mean to distract you. Carry on.”

“It’s fine, sir.” The guys nods. He looks a bit hesitant, then says “Would you… would you be interested in some…sparring? One-on-one?”

Cor almost smiles. “You think you can handle it, cadet?”

The guy chuckles. “I’d be willing to try.”

“Ok then.”

So they fight.

It’s… not cinematic by any means. They don’t quite have a rhythm of it yet. But Cor doesn’t waver.

The guy isn’t bad. There’s solid strength in each of his blows. Cor feels a shuddering impact from a hit to the back of his arm that nearly pushes him back, but he stands steady. Counters with a sharp strike to the guy’s neck. He ducks. Dodges, but leaves an opening. Cor lunges, but the guy lunges back.

He can see now there’s something rampant in the way he moves. Slightly… unhinged. It’s not a bad technique, but sometimes his fervor leads to recklessness. And it’s easy for Cor to exploit.

Cor succeeds in several hits to the guy’s chest and face. It’s not serious fighting, but each hit is met by something ferocious increasing in the guy’s onslaught. Cor has to dodge several times from hits that he calculates would do more than the restrained damage he’s used to in fights like this.

The guy clearly isn’t holding back.

Cor doesn’t mind. He needs this too.

The two of them spar for about fifteen minutes. It’s enough that Cor starts to feel that buzzing subside, sated. He still gages each movement. Lunging and pulling back and striking. This dance is made for him. His body. And the other guy contributes enough that it’s a challenge.

Cor’s about to call for a break when the guy’s breathing changes, forceful now. Desperation in his assaults. Cor dodges once, twice, but the guy keeps coming. They step backwards, Cor now losing the lead, he’s using all his movement to counteract, arms brought up in quick succession, holding him off.

It’s clear the guy’s lost in it now. Blind rage taking over. Cor’s felt it before, so he can’t really blame him. Still, it’s easy to pinpoint his moves, sloppy from the eagerness. Cor pulls back.

“Easy, cadet.”

The guy doesn’t stop. Just keeps pushing Cor back. Cor meets his eyes and there’s something there; a physical rage, his body is almost swollen with it.

“That’s enough,” Cor puts up a hand to call for a halt, but that doesn’t get through to him.

Instead the guy swats Cor’s hand away, using his temporary distraction to lunge at his face, a hard fist connecting with Cor’s temple. Then he’s swiping at his legs, trying to catch him off balance.

The blow to the head stuns him for just a second, but Cor’s got enough control to stabilize himself from the attempt at his legs. “Hey!” His voice is hard now, adamant. The voice he uses in training drills. “I said that’s enough, cadet.”

The guy shakes his head, standing back. He seems to have broken out of it. Whatever spell had him taken captive. Breathing still harsh, shoulders still shaking with exertion.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just… relax.” Cor runs a hand up his hair, brushing the bangs out of his eyes. “Sheesh. You have it out for me or something?”

“No, sir. I… I’m sorry, sir.”

“Hey, you’re not in trouble or anything. Astrals. I don’t know which of us needed that more.” He wipes the sweat from his face, almost smiling.

The guy has a perplexed look on his face. His body is still shuddering slightly, coming down from the adrenaline. But his brows are furrowed, casting a dark look on his features.

Cor scrutinizes him. Taking in the hard edge of his frame, the way he carries himself. The way he bows his head.

“You have a lot of anger, yeah?”

The guy looks up, and sure enough; Cor sees it. In the light in his eyes, still cast partway in shadow.

He nods.

“Yeah. It’s not a bad thing, you know.” Cor walks over to his bag, grabs two water bottles. He tosses one to the guy. “Anger isn’t bad. Don’t let anyone else tell you that.”

“Doesn’t it make you… more vulnerable?” The guys swallows half the bottle and his breathing settles a bit. But it’s still there.

“Sure. If you don’t know how to use it. Or if you’re using it for the wrong reasons. But you can’t ignore it. You can’t pretend it’s not there, cuz it is. And you can shape it.”

“How?” The guy looks genuinely interested now.

“Just… focus on it. Not all the other shit that comes with it; just the feeling. You can wield it like a weapon if you know how to handle it.”

“And what if I can’t handle it?”

Cor pauses. “Then maybe you’re not angry enough.”

They stand there, panting slightly. Silent. But not uncomfortable. Cor sits down on the mat, against the wall, stretching out his legs. He’s tired, but it’s good.

The guy sits down next to him. Grabs a bag at his side, tosses Cor a protein bar of some kind.

Cor takes it and nods.

They sit in the silence for a bit. But it’s not so heavy.

“That’s a wicked scar.”

Cor looks down. He’s rubbing the mark on his knee absentmindedly, it’s still all red. “Yeah.”

He closes his eyes. Leans his head back on the wall. He knows there’s a presence in the corner by the door, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it now. No. he wants to immerse in this feeling a bit.

Eventually, he feels the guy at his side get up and stand.

“Thanks for the distraction, sir.”

He nods. Cracks a careless smile. “Any time.”

Cor sits and holds his head in his hands. His temple aches but it’s not so bad.

Then he gets up. Walks towards the door. Nods at the figure there, but doesn’t stop.

“Cor.”

“Mmn.” He waves a hand, walks into the locker room.

“You must be pissed still. Haven’t seen you fight like that in a while.”

He just shakes his head, opens his locker.

“You looked good. I mean, yeah. You always fight well. I’m surprised though. Didn’t think you had anyone willing to spar with you. And hell, Drautos hardly speaks to anyone. How’d you get him to talk to you?”

Cor doesn’t respond, just continues with preparing to leave.

“Sheesh. Won’t you even look at me?”

He does. Eyes a bit glazed, digging in his locker for his jacket. “What do you want, Clarus?”

The older man sighs deeply. “Just wanted to… say sorry. I didn’t mean for things to escalate like that, you know.”

“Yeah.” Cor shrugs his jacket over his sweaty clothes. Doesn’t bother putting his pajama pants back on. “But you meant what you said.”

“Gods, Cor. Can’t you let me apologize?”

He starts walking towards the exit.

“Go ahead.”

“Look, I get it, ok? I get that you’re still angry. I understand that-”

“Sure.”

“Hey, listen.” Clarus makes like he’s gonna grab his arm but he stops himself. “I’m… just concerned about you, kid.”

“I’ve got everything handled, Clar.”

The two of them are outside now. Cor’s legs are cold, still wearing the shorts. He stops and runs a hand through his hair.

Clarus stops too. “Would you just… consider what I have to say?”

He rubs his palms in his eyes, suddenly very tired. “Mmmn.”

“Cor, look at me.” Clarus does touch his arm now, but just for a second.

Cor doesn’t want to look. No. He doesn’t want to be here right now. Clarus is practically radiating pity in his direction and it makes him feel sick. He grabs the packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lights one, breathing it in quickly. “I’m listening.”

“Thought you quit.” There’s disappointment thick in Clarus’s voice.

“Yeah, well…” Cor exhales out heavily.

“Look, I… I know you got a lot of stuff going on, kid… Cor. I know you’ve got a lot weighing on you.”

“Mmn.”

“I think you should… talk to someone…”

“I’m talking to you.”

“Hardly. No I… I mean like a… therapist or something...”

Cor gives a startled laugh. “A therapist? So you think I’m crazy then? That it?”

“No, Cor. You’re not… crazy. Fuck’s sake…”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You think I’m all cracked cuz of all the shitty stuff I’ve been through, huh?”

“No, please, just listen-”

“Cuz I was a child soldier, yeah? Must be all kinds of fucked up from that…”

“Cor, please-”

“Or maybe it’s hereditary. Yeah. That must be it. Pretty soon I’ll be forgetting my own name. Gonna set me up in a nice apartment with mommy, or are you just gonna throw me in the loony-bin, cover your tracks and all?”

“Cor would you stop!” Clarus grabs him by the shoulders shaking him.

“I said I’d listen. Doesn’t mean I have to take this bullshit-”

“Fuck’s sake kid! Don’t you get that I’m trying to help?”

“Yeah, Clar. I get that. I get that you’re feeling… guilty or whatever. Feeling _sorry_ for me. Cuz I’m so fucked up. Cuz you were the one to help sneak me into the military when I was fucking twelve, but _it’s fine_. I’m over it. I’m fine with it. Just don’t treat me like your little social experiment gone wrong.”

Clarus steeples his hands in front of his face, eyes closed, shaking his head. “Astrals’ fucking sakes, wow. You must be determined to be impossible today, huh?”

Cor takes a deep hit from the cigarette, feeling his anger fester. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No.” Clarus’s voice rises, he’s shaking now. “Yeah, clearly fucking not. But you know what? I got… fuck, I got _Cid_ sending me messages wondering if you’re about to fucking _off yourself_ , yeah… I got a pregnant wife back home who keeps asking about you, fucking _Linus Scientia_ of all people messaging me about your mental health, so yeah…you didn’t ask for help, kid. But gods be damned if you don’t fucking need it.”

They let the silence hang over them.

Heavy. Heavy.

Cor covers his face with his hands, cigarette burning against his fingertips. Clarus is huffing, heat practically coming off of him in waves.

“I got nothin’ to talk about.” Cor finally says.

Clarus laughs bitterly. “Yeah. Ok.”

“I mean it.”

“Sure, Cor.” He shakes his head, bringing his hand up to pinch between his brows.

Cor does mean it. He doesn’t… have the words.

“I won’t just sit by and watch you fall apart. Not like this.”

“I’m not falling apart, Clarus.”

“Look at you!” Clarus nearly shouts in his face.

Cor closes his eyes, fingers clenching into fists as he wracks them against his head.

“Fuck’s sake, Cor! You look like you haven’t slept in days, guards said you walked in here in your _fucking pajamas!_ Your apartment is a _joke_. Don’t even pretend you’ve been eating properly! I can’t remember the last time I saw you without that haunted fucking look on your face. I know you’ve been… hurting yourself. I can see the marks on your leg right now! Delphi’s been trying to call you and you just… _don’t respond?_ You, fuck, you’re having panic attacks at a fucking party! What am I supposed to do? You’re not fucking talking to any of us, and I’ve got Regis asking if you’re alright. What am I supposed to tell him, huh? Gods, when was the last time you had a fucking haircut kid? You’re a _fucking mess_ …”

He’s running before he really realizes it.

“Hey!” The hand tries to grip him and he violently shakes it off, but it comes back, harder. He tries to escape his grasp, but the older man holds him in place.

“ _Don’t_.”

“Cor, don’t do this-”

“No, Clarus! Let me go! Gods know I’m too much of a fucking problem, so just let me deal with it myself.”

“Just, wait-”

“No! I’m done trying to listen to your shitty advice. Just let me be a fucking disgrace to the Crown in peace!”

“Wow.” Clarus lets him go. Steps back. Cor doesn’t want to see his expression. “I thought you were better than this, Leonis.”

Clarus shakes his head and Cor swallows down whatever disgusting, shameful thing he’s feeling and he moves back.

“You should lower your expectations.”

And he leaves.

Back to his car.

He pulls his feet up on the dashboard, hands wrenching in his hair. And he feels angry. _So angry_.

So he screams into his hands. Punches his knee til it hurts.

He keeps screaming til his throat hurts, til he crumples in a heap in the driver’s seat, head full of the weight of it all; anger, fear, _pain_. It’s stupid. He’s so fucking stupid.

He drives somewhere. He doesn’t even know.

He just sits there.

In his car.

With his body. And his anger.

All day.

And he watches the colors change.

Watches the light disappear in a shroud of darkness. Blanket after blanket.

And there’s no hand to pull him out, out from under the dark, under the weight. But it doesn’t matter. No one was coming anyway.

So he holds his arms around his legs because it’s all he has for warmth.


	10. Chapter 10

At some point it occurs to Cor that he’s been uncommonly, immensely and impossibly stupid.

He has his back arched uncomfortably, half-way lying in the seat of his car. He hasn’t slept. Not really at least. And his neck feels like any movement might make it snap off. Yeah. He’s fucking stupid.

And that just makes him angrier. It’s the kind of self-inflicted foolishness; the recollection of every shitty thing he’s done for the past… gods, how many days? Remembering the conversation with Clarus makes him scrunch up, covering his face with his hands; he wants to hide from it.

Gods.

He _is_ a fucking mess.

Cor shakes out of his haze enough to start up his car. He drives home. And the journey allows him some time to reflect on the godsdamn disaster that his life’s become.

It’s not enough to just stew in all the bullshit; he knows this now. And he knows it’s time to accept that… gods… maybe he does need help.

That scares him though.

It scares him how quickly he shut down. How… _easy_ it is for him to just… lose his thoughts, drown in the abyss of indifference (when he shook himself out of it in his car, he estimated he’d been there for over fifteen hours; it’s nearly morning now. Gods… how did he slip so far?)

He’d deal with it.

Yes. He nods to himself in the parking garage of his apartment. He wouldn’t let himself lose it.

_I thought you were better than this, Leonis…_

He sits there for another two hours.

Then… he _tries_. 

Cor swallows heavily. Leans his head on the wheel before pulling out his phone.

He’d known the thing was swamped with messages and missed calls, but he doesn’t even look at them. He tries to ignore the messages Clarus left him; he wants to have a clear mind so he can get his thoughts out to the other man. But every time his fingers type out words, it doesn’t come through. He deletes the first sentence. Then restarts. Then deletes it again.

Gods. He really doesn’t have the words.

Maybe he’d need more time with Clarus. It’s fine. They’d work through it eventually. Cor’s not one for eloquent apologies, but he’d think of something.

Instead, he starts to scroll through messages from Delphi. His stomach settles uncomfortably with guilt. Her messages are frivolous, often pointless. But it’s clear she was just trying to reach out. Make him smile maybe. She’d sent him a picture of herself in the garden, hands dirty. The caption reads: _kiwi burial in progress, RIP_. And he does smile. Even with the guiltiness making him feel sick.

He types out a response.

Just: _hey_.

He shakes his head, but it’s enough for now.

Then, because, hell- if he’s already stirring up all this guilty crap- he scrolls down to Weskham’s contact. Gods, it’s been forever since they’ve talked. And Cor suddenly wells up with the fact that… he misses hearing his friend’s voice. His gentle words. His teasing.

It hurt when Wes chose to stay behind in Altissia permanently. Cor still regrets his bratty reaction to it, but the two had maintained contact through calls and messages. That email from the other man had still gone unanswered, Cor remembers. He shuts his eyes, exhales.

He’s clicking the number to call before he can really talk himself out of it.

There’s no answer. And Cor doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed, but when he looks at the clock in his car, he sees that it’s pretty godsdamn early. And he thinks there’s a time difference in Accordo maybe.

Regardless, the sound of the beep makes him start and then suddenly he’s scrambling to come up with a message, a reason for calling in the first place.

“Uh, hey, Wes… It’s uh… It’s Cor… Leonis…” He winces. “Just, uh… just calling you to say… I don’t know… gods, it’s early... shit… didn’t mean to wake you up or anything, uh… anyway. I’m… I’m around… so give me a call back sometime, yeah? Ok…” The message ends before he can thoroughly drown in his embarrassment.

He sits slumped back in the chair, phone still in his hands, covering his face. He’s trying.

That’s what matters. 

Mentally kicking himself for it in advance, Cor keeps going. He shakes himself, scrolling for another number before he can really sit and list all the reasons it’s a bad idea, but he pushes on. Clicks the name and shuts his eyes, face scrunched with dread. But the other line picks up and it’s too late now.

Of course he answers.

“Boy.”

“Yeah. Hey. Cid.” Each word is pushed out with every effort of his emotional constipation.

There’s a sharp huff on the other end. “Hell, two calls in one week? Ya must miss me or somethin’.”

“Yeah.” He struggles, pushing a hand into his eye. “Hey, listen.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Cid.

After a moment- “Yeah, so, listen… I’m…” _Gods, why is this so hard?_

“’M listenin’…”

“Yeah, sorry. Just wanted to tell you… I… I’m doing ok. Yeah. I’m feeling better… than the other day. Yeah. So… yeah.” 

“Sheesh, boy. Reckon ya mighta hit yer head harder’n I thought. What, cat’s got yer toungue?”

“I’m… trying, Cid.” _Gods_. He runs his hand through his hair, wincing.

“I know, kid. I know.” Cid laughs sadly on the other end. “I do appreciate the call. I was… uh, a tick concerned ‘bout ya, but I know yer a strong kid.”

“Yeah. Sorry… didn’t mean to… make you worry.”

“Ahck! I’m a grandpa now, remember? Worry all the time!”

Cor snorts. “Yeah. Still… I… I’m doing ok. Don’t need you getting any more wrinkles for my sake.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a tough one, I know. But that don’t mean ya need to dig yerself into a pit with no way out, y’know? There’s a lotta folk who care enough about ya ta piss on ya if you were on fire, boy. Don’t forget that.”

“That’s… uh, thanks? I guess?”

Another laugh. This one sounds better. “Hell, if ya called ta say ya missed me just get it over with already, yeah?”

Cor laughs a bit himself. “Yeah, ok. Sure. I miss you old man.”

“That’ll do it.”

There’s a lapse of silence for a bit. Cor presses the phone hard against his ear, bracing his forehead on the wheel. He rubs the back of his head roughly. Eventually he sighs. “I’m uh… I’m ok. Cid. I’m… I’m not gonna… hurt myself… if that’s what you think…”

Clarus’s words from the previous day may have merged into a kind of angry soup in Cor’s mind, but some of the things stick out. Hearing about Cid’s concerns is one of them.

A heavy exhale. “Good.”

More silence.

Then- “Thanks. Cid.”

“Ya don’t have ta thank me, son…”

“Yeah. I don’t have to. But I want to. So… thanks.” Maybe expressing gratitude is easier than apologizing. It makes Cor feel a tiny bit better anyway.

“Just keep on keepin’ on, son.”

“I’ll try.”

He will.

He’s trying.

He’s gonna… he’s gonna try to help himself.

Cor walks up to his apartment feeling like some of the weight has lifted. Not much, but he can stand a bit straighter now.

There’s a note on his door again. Lots of exclamation marks: _I HATE MONDAAAYS!! AHHH!!!!!_

He snorts. It makes him smirk, shake his head. But there’s something else that stirs. Monday. Oh.

It’s been a week since he collapsed in Regis’s room, a week since the council meeting. Since he’d seen his mom.

Damn.

There’s a thought to just… get it over with. Face his fears. If he’s really gonna start… bettering himself, he ought to keep the momentum. So yeah. He’s gonna visit his mother again. Even though every ounce of his deprecation is telling him not to.

 _I hate Mondays too, kid_ , he thinks. But sometimes you just have to push through.

So that’s what he does.

He goes inside his apartment, showers. Has actual breakfast; toast, and a banana, and some eggs.

He picks out his nicest shirt- the one he’d worn to Regis’s party, the smooth black one. For some reason he just… wants to look nice. He thinks it might make him feel better.

But checking his reflection in the mirror rebuts that- the bruise on his head is mottled, all blue-black and swollen. The line of his stitches casts a sharp contrast on his pale skin. And gods, he looks _exhausted_. Cor tries to comb his bangs over the wound, but it’s still visible. He grimaces.

(There’s a sad part of him hoping his mom might see him and smile, say _my son, so handsome_ again and he’d feel something warm in his chest, but it doesn’t really matter.)

Some of Clarus’s words ring out through his head again and he braces against the sink, nauseous.

_I’m trying… I’m trying…_

And he is. So he leans back, tucks the rest of his hair behind his ears and attempts something of a smile. If he turns to one side, you can’t even see the bruising and maybe with his nice shirt and his broad shoulders he looks ok…

He’s trying.

Driving to his mother’s place, he decides to pull over, an idea popping in his head. There’s a jewelry store up ahead. He figures it might make his mom feel nice to get something, a little present, and therefore it might make Cor feel nice too.

Standing in front of the display, the man realizes he has no sense of what might be considered _pretty_. There’s a few glittery looking pieces that look expensive, not to mention a gaudy array of clunky shit that he pays no mind to. No. His mother deserves something elegant.

There’s a flash in his head that he can’t quite keep away; a silver chain with a silver heart, an inscription engraved along the front. He swallows down nausea.

“Anything catch your eye, sir?” The attendant keeps observing him and he feels even more on edge.

“Just looking.”

“Anything specific? We have a new collection of rubies that might be fitting for the upcoming season.”

He shakes his head. His eyes have narrowed to a delicate necklace; a silver spiraled heart with a pale blue gem set in the middle. It’s not unlike the one he saw Aulea wearing and he knows she must have good taste. Plus he likes the color too. “Uh… maybe that one.” He points, bringing the other hand to rub the back of his neck.

“A lovely choice.” She removes it from the case, brings it closer so he can see. “I’m sure whatever lucky lady receives this will feel very special indeed.”

He tries not to grimace. “Yeah. I’ll take it.”

“Excellent!”

He pays and walks back to his car, feeling… nervous, for some reason. He hopes his mom likes it.

There’s someone waiting by his car though. Cor stops short. Anger starting to bloom in his chest.

“Ah, Captain Leonis! Mind giving us a few words about-”

“Move it!” Cor doesn’t bother with niceties this time. It’s the same godsdamn weasel-faced reporter from last time.

“Just a statement about your recent hospital visit. Tell me, were you injured in a training exercise? Or was it a personal conflict?”

“Walk away from my car right now.” Cor shoves past him, furious. “I’m not gonna tell you again.”

The guy has his camera out, so Cor pushes it down as he walks by. He doesn’t let the guy get in another question, just opens his door quickly and steps on the gas.

He drives away feeling rattled. Shaking his head a few times does little to quell it. But he’s trying. He’s trying to be better. The rest of the drive passes quickly, but Cor keeps fiddling with the jewelry box in his left hand. He’s trying.

Arriving at the apartment he realizes he forgot to call this time too. And the nervousness is now unavoidable. He tucks his shirt in again, lamenting the fact that he’s wearing his shitty jeans. He smooths out his hair then remembers he wanted to hide his bruise, so he’s left swiping at some of the bangs like a crazy person when the door opens.

“Oh, Mr. Leonis.” It’s the same nurse from last time. Still can’t remember the name. She looks skeptical this time, weary almost. “We weren’t expecting a visit.”

“Yeah, I know. I forgot to call again…” He’s still brushing his hand through his hair, agitated.

“Miss Esther is… having a bit of a rough day.” Cor can see now there’s another nurse in the background peeking her head around the corridor. He feels a heavy lump settle somewhere in his chest.

“I… uh. I just wanted to stop by again, you know. Maybe a familiar face-”

“Yes, come in. Of course. I didn’t mean to discourage a visit. It’s just… the last visitor she had didn’t go so well.”

Cor blinks. The last visitor was him right? He thinks the nurse might be holding his odd behavior from last time against him. Great. Just what he needs.

Regardless, Cor enters.

The weight in his chest seems to swell with every step. He nods politely at the other nurse. She’s an older woman, and he recognizes her. Gloria, he remembers. It’s rare that his mother requires more than one staff, but sometimes her… issues require more assistance.

The younger nurse says, “Mr. Leonis was kind enough to stop by. Isn’t that nice?”

Gloria smiles, but there’s something else behind it. “I’m sure your mother would very much appreciate it, dear. She’s just having a bit of a rest now.”

Cor swallows. “I… can come back if…”

“Don’t be silly, dear.” Gloria smiles again and this time he can pinpoint it. _Pity_. “It might be just the thing she needs to cheer her up.”

The sense of dread is almost physical now. Cor’s been squeezing tightly on the jewelry box in his hand, now feeling very stupid about the whole thing.

“Umm. Ok. Should I… go in now?”

The older nurse, Gloria, approaches and lays a hand on his arm. He doesn’t flinch. She’s got warm eyes. “Let me just check in with Miss Esther and see if she’s… calmed down a bit.”

“Ok.”

Cor stands there clutching the box, swallowing down whatever heavy feeling is determined to choke him next. The younger nurse keeps staring. He feels like he’s starting to shake.

He moves over to the wall, just an excuse to stop standing still. There are some pictures on it, flowers and things. A painting of some landscape. But a few of them are personal pictures, pictures of him. School portraits. His academy picture. A baby one (gods he was so little). There’s no pictures of his mother though. Not a single one of the two of them together.

He realizes that as he’s been scanning them, he had been looking for one in particular. Seven years old, holding a sword. But it’s not here.

The other nurse is watching him, he’s aware. Lydia. Yeah, that’s her name. She makes a soft sound, then says “You were a cute kid.” She giggles lightly.

Cor doesn’t respond, just keeps staring at the pictures. His school portrait from first grade shows a blonde-ish looking mop of hair, a begrudging smile that looks half like a grimace. _Cute?_ He looks more like some kinda mutated demon…

The door of his mother’s bedroom opens and Gloria nods at him. “It’s ok to come in, say hi. Miss Esther might not… uh, she might be a little different today, but I’m sure she’ll appreciate the visit.”

He ducks into the room before he gets the chance to think about it further.

She’s there. In the bed again. Eyes a bit glazed. Something… dark in her features.

“Hey ma.” He lets out a heavy breath, hands behind his back. It’s like last time. But it isn’t.

“Mnnh.” She grunts, not even looking up. She’s fiddling with something, her hands under the blanket.

Cor looks to Gloria, whose eyes have filled with that _pity_ that he hates. She nods sadly, then leaves him in the room with his mom. Alone.

“It’s Cor.” He says even though it’s pointless. She doesn’t look up. “Just wanted to stop in again. See how you were.”

“Mmmn.”

He brings the hand with the box up, covers his face for a second, flinching. It’s painful. It hurts. 

“Had a bad day, huh?” He hates the way his voice sounds. Shaky. Weirdly pitched. But he goes on. “What, they cancel your favorite soap opera?”

She does look up at that. He almost laughs.

“Whaddyou want?” Her voice lacks any trace of warmth. She sits back, drooping against the pillow.

“Nothin’, ma. Just… saying hi.” His throat is tight. His hands shake. The stupid box is still in his grip.

She grunts again, looking at him out of the sides of her eyes. “Thought I told you to leave.”

Cor stops still. Confused. “I… I just got here, ma. What you want me to go already?”

She doesn’t confirm or deny, just keeps twiddling with whatever she’s got in her hands.

There’s silence. The bad kind.

Cor’s about to start slipping down the wall when she speaks and he nearly jumps.

“Get me those glasses. Can’t see the fucking tv.”

“Glasses? Where?” He moves forward, uncertain. At least she’s acknowledging him though. His throat clenches.

“In the godsdamn drawer where do you think?” She huffs then points to the side table.

Cor hurries forward. He puts the jewelry box in his pocket, begins searching through the top drawer. Rifles for the glasses. There’s a bunch of shit in there, and he doesn’t see them on the top. “You sure they’re in here?”

A swift hand comes out and grips his arm. “What? Gimme that, don’t go lookin’ through my stuff!”

He pauses, breathing heavily. “I’m trying to help you find your glasses, remember?”

“Don’t need no fuckin’ glasses. I got perfect eyes, Doc said so.” She gives him such a sharp look he almost recoils.

“Ok.” He retracts his arm, rubs it with his other hand. His eyes settle on a pair of glasses, left on top of the tv stand. He blinks quickly, ignoring the tightness in his head.

Cor sits down on the chair next to the bed. He just sits there. Rubbing his arm.

Eventually Esther grumbles something, trying to shift the pillow behind her.

“Let me help you.” His voice sounds monotonous, and he moves oddly. Strangely detached.

“Don’t need no help, gods’ sakes!” (Fuck, maybe it’s hereditary after all.)

“C’mon, ma. You’re all tangled in these sheets.” Cor rearranges the blankets, fluffs up her pillows. She swats at his arm again. He steps back.

“Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want you around no more?” She doesn’t even look at his face.

If Cor wasn’t so sure his heart didn’t work anymore- _gods_. He hangs his head, crushed by the weight of every sentimental thing he once held on to. It’s so heavy.

“Sorry. I can go.”

“Huh?” His mother looks at him again, eyes narrowing. A tiny bit of confusion, that cruel spark that fuels the fucked up fantasy that _everything’s gonna be ok_. But she slumps back. Features still dark.

Cor just keeps blinking too fast. Keeps rubbing his arm. Keeps re-tucking in his nice black shirt. Keeps swallowing.

She turns to him again, points at the side table. “Get me my glasses, would you? Top drawer.”

“Ok.” His voice shakes. And his hands. But he opens the drawer again, vision slightly fuzzy. And he looks through it. Even though it’s pointless.

His mother stirs at his side. “Look, you’re makin’ me miss the good parts!”

He shakes his head to clear it a bit. Keeps digging through all the shit in the drawer. “Sorry.”

“Sorry, _sorry_. Yeah, like I believe that from you…”

Cor just keeps searching through the drawer. There’s bottles of pills, little knick-knacks. Some paperwork. Then-

His fingers tug on a sheet of paper. A glossy magazine page.

His heart stops.

“Just get me my godsdman glasses would you?”

Cor grips the paper. Blinking rapidly. But he can see it clearly. Little circles. Little happy faces and sad faces and funny faces. Stickers all lined in rows.

“Whaddyou lookin’ at, huh? Quit goin’ through my stuff!” She tries to swipe at the paper, but Cor pulls it back.

“It’s nothing.” He swallows even though his throat’s pretty much closed. “It’s nothing.”

He places it back in the drawer, hands smoothing out the edges as he piles the useless junk back over it. Buried. It’s nothing.

Then he gets up and grabs the glasses on the tv stand. Holds them out to his mom and doesn’t look at her face.

She makes a confused grunt, but she accepts them. Puts them on. Then gets back to her fidgeting.

“What you got there?” Cor’s surprised he can even speak still. He’s pretty sure he left the last solid part of himself in that top drawer.

“Mind your damn business.”

“Right.” He sits back down. Body slightly numb.

“What you forgot? You fucking gave ‘em to me.”

He blinks. Trying to makes sense of it all. There’s something creeping in the corners of his mind. “Huh?”

She holds up what’s in her hands and suddenly… he doesn’t want to look. It’s that blind instinct that alerts him in fights; that _don’t go up ahead, danger, danger_ , warning bell that’s kept him alive so far. But he’s not impervious.

He looks.

She’s holding up a string of beads. Blue. Tiny blue beads.

Cor opens his mouth, but forgets how to talk.

“Yeah, remember? Cuz I lost the other ones… or was it that damn kid… can’t remember...”

He closes his eyes, not blinking, so the pressure gets through.

“Where did you get those?”

“You gave ‘em to me you stupid idiot.”

“Ma.” His voice is deep, low. “ _Where did you get those?_ ”

“I _just said_ , didn’t I? Gods know you never fuckin’ listen-”

Cor reaches forward, suddenly grabbing the beads from her hands, but she’s got a tight hold. “What’re you-”

“Ma, look at me! Who gave these to you? Was somebody here?” He’s frantic, the low tone of his voice wavering uncontrollably.

“Get your hands off me!” She wrenches back, but Cor stops her with a heavy grip on her shoulders, now shaking her hysterically.

“Hey, c’mon. Look at me-”

“Get off!” She shakes, wild-eyed. And then-

She screams loudly, desperate, a wail in his ear. Cor recoils back, horrified.

“Ma, calm down-” He reaches out, but she shuffles back, beating at his arms.

“Get away from me! I told ya to never come back!”

“Ma, please…” The tears reach his voice now, quaking, ugly, terrible.

He keeps trying to reach out to her, keeps trying to hold her down, keeps trying… he’s trying, he’s trying…

“I told ya to leave! Get away from me, I mean it. I mean it Ar-”

He blinks out, sound cutting off.

He doesn’t hear her finish it, but it doesn’t matter. His ears are ringing. And the door of the room is opening and he’s pushed aside, the nurses coming over to the bed, trying to pull his mother back to reality. Cor stands there. Not even blinking. The echo of what she said just… a single siren note.

The nurses are struggling to subdue Esther, and Cor watches as the younger one pulls out a syringe.

“No!” He thinks he shouts, he still can’t really hear. It’s ringing, ringing. He scrambles over, knees on the bed as he pulls his mother close, despite her resistance.

The young nurse says something like “She needs sedation” and Cor just frantically shakes his head, says “She’s not a fucking animal”, and he holds her.

She beats at him with those strong arms, but he holds her to his chest. Backing up to the headboard of the bed. He holds her with his arms wrapped around her, held to his body. 

He lets her fight him, he lets her claw at his arms with her sharp nails.

“Shhh…” He says, and he takes it. She punches and kicks and pulls at his fancy shirt till its all warped and stretched and messed up.

She swipes at his face, crying out in terrible sounds, and she calls him that name again and Cor wants to bury his face in her shoulder, in her frizzy hair and have her hold him back, have her whisper _shhhh_ to him instead, and he wants her to wipe away the tears that now soak his face and say _my son, so handsome_ , and he wants to reach out into his back pocket, pull out the shiny necklace and for her to smile, ask for him to put it on her, maybe they’d take a picture, just him and her, smiling cuz she likes the necklace and for her to touch it with her weathered hands, say _just like your eyes_ and for him to hold her and her to hold him back, but she doesn’t. She can’t. Because _everything’s gonna be ok_ is just a lie to tell people so they don’t break down completely. But his mother’s broken down. Completely.

He holds her still.

Even though she keeps hurting him. He holds her til she stops. Til she settles down. Quiet. Then almost asleep.

He lays her on the bed, tucks her in. Layers the blankets over her form, then smooths the hair off her forehead, gentle. He steps back.

The two nurses are still in the room. He knows. He doesn’t look at their faces but they radiate a specific flavor of sympathy that just sticks in the back of Cor’s throat, making him want to spit it out even if it carves his whole throat on the way out.

He covers his face with his hands. He tries to straighten his shirt, tuck it back into his jeans. He covers his face again.

There’s a tentative hand on his arm that almost makes him jump. But he’s tired. And he really doesn’t care anymore.

“I’m sorry, dear.”

He stares forward, nodding his head up and down. “It’s fine.” His voice is a harsh, gravelly mess. But it sounds better like this.

“I think she’ll just need some rest. To calm down. No need for the sedation.”

He keeps nodding. Looking at a point on the wall. “Good.”

The other nurse pipes up. “She seemed to be caught up in a bad mood. It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah.” He exhales sharply. “She, uh… she just got worked up.”

Both the nurses make soft, indecipherable sounds. Cor closes his eyes. Tries to swallow. He exhales again.

“Did…” He has to cough to clear his throat but he still struggles. “Did… someone… stop by? Did someone come to see her?” The way he says _someone_ makes him want to set himself on fire. But he has to.

“We thought you knew…?” The younger one sounds startled. “He said he talked to you. And Miss Esther didn’t seem to mind at first. But then after… she’s been in a bad mood for a few days now.”

Cor just tips his head back, hands brought over his eyes. Then he scruffs at the back of his head. Gods… it feels so heavy. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t know what to say.

So he just says “Ok.” And he lets the nurses inflict their pity on him, lets them drag him to the sitting room with droopy eyes and sad soft sounds. He doesn’t care. His head is so heavy.

Before he gets up to leave, he pulls the jewelry box from his back pocket, not even letting himself look at it. He places it on the coffee table, says “Got that for her. Thought she might like it.”

He still thinks so. That she might like it. That maybe it might make her smile. He hopes so.

(And that’s why he’s so uncommonly, immensely and impossibly stupid; he has this thing that eats him, that’s slowly destroying him and he fosters it in his own chest, right where his heart might be, and this thing is called _hope_ and he thinks he can’t live without it and he’s stupid stupid stupid…)

He leaves.

And sits in his car.

And goes home.

And he takes off his fancy shirt and throws it on the ground, and he holds his head, his heavy head, and he squeezes his eyes shut even though it hurts, even though it’s _excruciating_ to stop himself from crying, but he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to cry, he’s trying to be better, he’s trying he’s trying…

His phone rings and he answers because he needs to hear something, something other than the ringing of that name in his head and he hears a voice on the other end and it’s Delphi. She’s saying “Been worried about you, kid. You doing ok?”

And Cor says “No.”

He says _no_ because he’s not doing ok even though he’s _trying_ , but trying doesn’t always work.

So Delphi says “Ok. Wanna talk about it?”

And he doesn’t want to talk about it so he says “No. I wanna get away.”

And she says “Ok. We can do that.”

So he drives to her house and she gets in the car and doesn’t ask any questions, and she’s holding a box of kiwis but Cor doesn’t ask her any questions about that either. He just nods at her and they go for a drive.

He drives and it’s easy.

It’s easy to shut things off (but that thing called hope is still there, festering).

And maybe he’d talk about it in a bit. When he finds the words. When his voice sounds like his again.

But for now he just drives.

And it’s not ok, but it doesn’t have to be. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was gonna be one giant chapter, but I split it in two... the angst is getting too heavy ;_;

They drive to the western wall. There’s a part of it where you can climb up and walk the perimeter. A view of the western plain. Open. Vast. Yet empty.

Cor doesn’t say much to Delphi on the car ride over. He can’t even focus- he just… keeps drifting into somewhere else, somewhere where he’s… somebody else. It’s all very melancholic.

The two stand against the guard rail. Watching as birds fly past occasionally. Watching the clouds shift.

At some point, Delphi procures a kiwi from the box she’d been carrying, holds it in her palm for a second or two. Then she looks at Cor. Grins. And chucks it over the side of the wall.

He takes one from the box as well. It’s soft and fuzzy and weird. He winds back his arm and launches it into the sky. Delphi laughs. And maybe Cor smiles too.

So they take turns littering the outland landscape with tropical fruit, each throw getting more and more aggressive. Trying to see who can get it farthest. Cor wonders if he throws it hard enough that it’ll hit the magic barrier, that maybe Regis might feel a tingle or something. He hopes not. And he hopes no one calls security on them. 

He shakes out his arm, taking in the immensity of the sky. The icy air cramping in his airways. 

“You cold?” Delphi turns to him after a particularly impressive pitch. 

He’s got his shitty jacket wrapped around him and he’s shaking but he doesn’t know if it’s cold he’s feeling. He shrugs.

“Gotta get you a better coat…”

“We can go if you’re too cold.”

“No, no. It’s good. Gave me a reason to get out of the city. I like it here.”

“Yeah.” He nods.

There’s more silence. The clouds move nonetheless.

Delphi’s rocking on the balls of her feet, hands gripped around the railing. She keeps looking his way, Cor knows. She keeps opening her mouth to say something, but each time she stops herself.

The questions he knows are on the tip of her tongue- Cor doesn’t want to hear them. Not now.

So he turns his back against the bars, eyeing her sideways and points at her belly. “How’s the, uh… bean growing?”

She chuckles. Places a hand on her stomach. “He’s coming along nicely I think.”

“He?” Cor perks up. “Thought you didn’t know about that yet.”

“Not officially. But I’m… pretty sure. Intuition or something.” She makes a face and shrugs but the hand is still in its place. Protective.

“A boy? Damn. You’ll have it in for you.” Cor blows out a heavy breath.

“You reckon? Here’s hoping he’s not just a tiny version of his dad then.” She crosses her fingers, smirking.

“Nah, Clarus has strong genes. That baby’s gonna come out bald and jacked, just you wait.”

Delphi laughs, nudging him lightly.

“Are you, uh… scared?” Cor scratches the back of his head. “Of like, the birth and stuff?”

The look on Delphi’s face changes, she stares down at her feet. “Probably. But not really.”

Cor has no authority on child birth but he knows Delphi’ll be a good mom. She’s… caring. And _aware_. The thought of his own mother makes his chest convulse horribly. He grips the railing tightly. “I think you’ll do ok. You’re, uh… good at growing things.”

She smiles warmly. “You think so?”

Nodding swiftly, he returns her gaze. Then stares back at the sky. “You’ll be good at it. You… and Clarus. Yeah.” He nods again. Even though the thought of his friend just makes his chest pain worse. 

Delphi looks a bit sad, but Cor doesn’t want to analyze it. 

He rubs at his arm. There’s probably a bruise from where his mom punched at him repeatedly. The wrist feels sore, but he keeps pressing on it. That kind of controlled pain. Just to acknowledge it. _Yes. This hurts. But I can feel it still._

The silence closes in.

Funny how even with the scenery, the wide open view, Cor feels like he’s being pressed by some greater force. Something that’s determined to make him feel smaller and smaller. And it’s working.

He coughs into his arm, rests his head on it against the bars.

If he blinks- he’s back in that room again. Holding his mom as she screams at him. He blinks again and he’s in the jungle, lying in the dirt next to those bodies. Blink, blink. He’s in that shitty apartment, rocking on the floor with a hand in his mouth and the other wrapped around his scalding ankles, then he’s covered in blankets, it’s dark, but there’s a pull of the curtain and he sees a face smiling at him, a hand to pull him out. Blink. He’s walking in the streets in December and his hands have gone numb.

He closes his eyes and goes somewhere else.

“You ok, kid?”

Delphi had done well to ignore this particular inquiry for long enough it seems. Cor still held out hope she wouldn’t ask him at all.

He makes a sound but isn’t sure what he means by it.

There’s a minute or two of silence where he just breathes out slowly, heavily. It fogs the view in front of him for a second. Ephemeral cover. He grinds his head deeper into his arm.

“I’m not gonna hold anything against you, you know.” Delphi’s voice is gentle. “I don’t want to put any more pressure on you than there already is. But… gods, Cor. You wanna talk about it?”

He makes that sound again.

Delphi’s looking at him. The wind picks up and stirs against his body. He shivers. Holds the coat closer to him. One of his hands snakes through to the inner pocket, inching inside to feel the scrap of paper he keeps in there still. He rubs it between two fingers, breathing, breathing, trying…

“Hey, it’s ok Cor. I’m here for you, kid.”

He covers his face for a minute, arms braced against the railing. He can feel the sun on his skin, peeking through his fingers. It makes them glow red. He rests his forehead on the bar and it’s icy cold so he jerks away. He paces a bit. Covering his eyes still. Walking up the stretch of pavement, then back to Delphi. He thinks he makes a sound like he’s in pain.

Delphi doesn’t say anything else. But he feels her place a hand on his arm and he doesn’t shake it off.

“I’m sorry.” He says finally. Voice low and gravelly.

“No. Don’t be.” Delphi sounds adamant. He can almost picture her frown but he still has his eyes covered. “You’re allowed to not be ok.”

He blinks. Twists his fingers in his t-shirt, skin stinging underneath. There’s a terrible ache spreading up his body, stretching to his limbs. He shakes out his arms making that noise again. Then-and it’s quite a sudden thing too- he stands still. And it’s almost as if he’s stepped out of his body. But he’s still in there. Just separate. He moves and his body moves too. But he feels detached. And Delphi’s looking at him with those big eyes and he looks back at her. He moves, leans back against the railing, but he feels still. His thoughts don’t even have a voice anymore. It’s all very quiet.

But he talks.

He talks to Delphi and he knows it’s him talking but it feels so very far away.

“You have a name yet?” He asks.

And she cocks her head, confused.

“For the baby.” He says.

“I have a few ideas.” She looks thoughtful, but still concerned.

“My mom gave birth in a metro train.” Cor says; or at least the voice that sounds like him does.

Delphi’s expression changes, but Cor doesn’t focus on it. No. He’s talking still. His voice is talking.

“Yeah, she, uh… She was going to work. She used to work at a jewelry store down on Lanatae, real shitty pay. And the boss didn’t care that she was pregnant or nothing. So she kept going. Even past the due date. Think I was supposed to come in late November but I was a week or so late.”

He’s talking. He doesn’t stop.

“So ma had to take the southbound outta Jejun every day, six days a week. My…” He tries to swallow, but can’t. “My uh, dad was out of work then or something. He used to do construction, but it gets a little sparse in winter time, y’know? I don’t even think they were married yet, but he, uh… he said he’d help raise me. Said she could call me Leonis if she wanted. Ma was too naïve to say no. Plus dad gave her some shiny gift. A stupid heart necklace that meant the world to her. She thought it meant he actually loved her or some shit.”

He keeps going.

“Yeah, so my mom started getting contractions or whatever when the train was still coming into Somnus Plaza. She didn’t even know it was happening, told me she thought she’d eaten some bad Garula meat the night before and hell, if she got it from that butcher on the corner of Praxus, fuck, I don’t blame her. But she’s never been that bright. So she kinda sat down, crouching on the ground and tried to ride through the pain. And then her water broke and she said people were looking at her all funny. So she tried to back into the corner next to where the bars are and she just kept clutching that stupid necklace. I guess people started realizing what was happening after a bit, cuz she started screaming her head off. Probably looked like a mental patient at first, probably thought she mighta been deranged. But she said some lady came over and held her hand. Offered to call an ambulance but there was no use cuz they were fucking twenty feet underground. And ma said by that point it was starting to happen, so she tried to push and stuff. A few people helped clear the area. But gods, she was screaming and yelling and shit, still holding that godsdamn necklace.”

Cor holds his breath just a second, but keeps going.

“Yeah, so, she said it didn’t take very long. By that point somebody’d told the conductor and they stopped the train. So ma was kinda this big deal, you know? Everybody was hovering about, she said it drove her crazy. But eventually some people said to give her some privacy, so they laid her out on the disgusting, filthy metro floor- I think she was laying on some guy’s coat. And yeah. That’s how I was born. Ma said I started crying right away and she was scared that something went wrong, that she’d pushed too hard and hurt me, but someone told her that that was ok, that’s what’s supposed to happen. So she held me, and in her other hand was that fucking necklace. She’d squeezed it so hard it left a mark on her hand. An impression of the words that were written on it. Some Old Lucian shit- _cor meum in aeternum_. She thought it was so romantic. She thought it was a sign or something. So yeah. She named me _Cor_. For some shitty piece of jewelry that ended up meaning jack shit.”

Cor exhales. There’s a heavy cloud around him. Just for a second though. He closes his eyes.

“I guess what I’m saying is don’t name your kid something shitty. Something that you think has meaning but really doesn’t. Yeah? Cuz you have to look them in the eyes after. And I can’t imagine it feels nice for a woman who’s got literally nothing going for her to look at the boy she called _heart_ after some cheap trinket from a guy who left them both without breaking a sweat, so yeah, I don’t recommend that.”

Delphi looks. She looks at Cor but he doesn’t even look back. No. He’s not even here.

“But you’ll be a better mom than mine, no doubt. So that kid’ll be fine. Yeah.”

He nods decisively. Turns around so that he’s looking at the view again.

“Yeah, you won’t leave him either.”

He breathes in as much as he can, but it doesn’t quite reach his lungs. Just settles in his windpipe like a spike driven through it. Gods, he wants a smoke but he’s mindful enough of the pregnant lady next to him. Even if she’s not saying anything now.

Cor just stares at the sky. But he doesn’t really see it. He’s not really here.

The colors change.

Delphi touches his arm again but he doesn’t even feel it.

He just wraps himself up in his coat, trying to breathe, trying to focus, to concentrate on being here, standing here, but he can’t- he’s losing his grip, he’s losing his breath and he can’t feel his fingertips and at some point he doesn’t even try.

The sun sets. 

The darkness, like a weight, settles on his shoulders; but he’s used to carrying it. It’s not even heavy anymore.

“I’ll take you home.” He says. To Delphi. Or himself. He doesn’t know.

They walk down the steps. Off the wall. Back to Cor’s car. And he sits there a bit. Feels Delphi’s eyes, the hundreds of questions she opened and closed her mouth to not say. And he drives.

It’s like before. But it’s not.

Cor slips into that in-between, that auto-drive, but this time he’s aware of it happening. And instead of fighting it off he… lets it swallow him whole; a cloud that lasts longer than just a second (he likes it; he needs the time to hide.)

So he drives but he also disappears. Blanket by blanket.

And he drowns inside his own head. Trying to find something that means nothing.

And it’s dark and cold. And he can’t feel his body.

But it’s ok. He’s not ok, but it’s ok.

He was never afraid of the dark, no. He liked the gentle moments at night, sleeping under his tent of blankets. The soft sounds. Cars and city sounds. People breathing if he listened hard; the apartment was small enough that he could hear into his parent’s room from where he slept. He always felt warm and safe and he’d taste the milk and honey that his mom gave him before bed at the back of his throat, but it would soothe him, helping him breathe steadier. And he’d look at the curtain above him and he’d trace the outline of the pattern with his mind and he’d go somewhere else but it wasn’t scary. It was different. He was allowed to be different in that place. He’d fall into memories, or maybe not memories, because some of them may not have been real. Just little impressions of things he liked to imagine might happen. Like how dad and him played with that train set, only in Cor’s mind it was always bigger, the track was so long he didn’t think the train ever reached the end. And maybe it didn’t. It doesn’t have to in his mind. It can go on and on forever. Even when he closes his eyes. Yeah. He hopes the train never ends. 

He drifts.

Into not-memories.

And he drives.

Until he doesn’t.

There’s lights.

Cor winces as a bright white reaches his eyes. He lifts his hand off the steering wheel to cover them, but then he realizes that the car isn’t moving anymore.

And there’s voices. Coming from outside the car. And loud noises. Other cars, speeding past.

He’s very disoriented.

Delphi. She’s not next to him in the passenger seat. She’s not here. But he hears her voice from outside the car. They’re pulled over on the side of a busy road.

Cor shakes his head, tries to bring his eyes back into focus but the bright light makes it impossible. He tries to hear what they’re saying outside.

“… seems to be the problem?”

Another voice. “You can’t park your car on the side of the highway, ma’am. Is there an issue with…”

Cor winces, ears ringing slightly. He can’t concentrate. So he just grips the steering wheel harder. Then he pushes on the bruise on his wrist. It still hurts. It helps bring him back to reality. 

“… gonna need the driver to step out, you two can’t be parked here. It’s dangerous…”

“We just need a moment to calm down, I promise. This isn’t an issue of…”

“Hey, Romala, do you know who this is? Ma’am, aren’t you Clarus Amicitia’s wife?”

“Holy shit, and isn’t that Cor the Immortal? Godsdamn, is there a situation here? I’m gonna have to call Crownsguard security…”

“No… it’s fine, I promise you… nothing of the sort, just needed to stop the car to calm down…”

Cor blinks out a bit again.

But then there’s someone knocking on his window and he has to rub his hands in his eyes to try to make them out.

“Out of the car, sir.”

Cor makes a groaning sound.

“Hey!” A louder knock. “Don’t make me forcibly remove you. Torza, you have the sobriety test?”

Cor hears Delphi respond. “He’s fine! I promise! There isn’t a problem. We’re fine-”

“Come out of the car, sir, we just got a few questions then we need to move the car. Can’t be parked here.”

Shaking his head even though his mind is still somewhere else, Cor opens the door and walks out of the car. He’s immediately overloaded with the sounds of vehicles speeding by. From both sides of the highway. He thinks they might be on Basilium Parkway, just one stop away from the Citadel. But his car is parked in the middle, by the dividing rail between the two roads. And it’s dark enough now that all the headlights from late-night traffic just blast his senses even more.

He blinks at the man in front of him, an officer who appears to have just asked another question.

“I’m sorry?” Cor has to ask and his voice sounds husky.

“I asked what you think you’re doing here, sir.”

“I… uh…” He struggles to remember what happened.

The wall. He’d driven to the wall with Delphi. And then he drove back. Only… bits of it just don’t come through in his memory.

He sees Delphi being questioned by another officer, she’s got her back pressed against the police car away from the oncoming traffic. The red lights in her eyes make them look startled.

“I don’t know.” Cor settles on. Because he really doesn’t.

“Alright, well you gotta come with me. Here. Blow into this.” Something’s thrusted in Cor’s direction and he has enough control over his facilities to oblige. He still can’t get a hold of his thoughts though.

The officer says something else and leaves his side.

Cor just cradles his head in his hands as he slumps against the side of his car, waiting for further instructions. He’s… he’s so lost. And the sounds and sights of the cars hurtling past makes him feel… surreal. Like none of this is even happening. He closes his eyes, brings his hands over them to hide.

There’s further disturbance. Something happening over by the police car.

Cor has to shift his fingers to see through them but he sees another car pull up. And he hears a loud, angry voice.

“ _What the fuck’s going on here?_ ”

“Sorry, sir. We’re still trying to figure that out-”

“Delphi!” A shout and Cor almost wants to cover his ears, all this noise is getting to him.

He lets himself swim in the fog in his mind, not bothering to pay attention. But the voices get louder.

And then he feels someone rushing towards him.

Before he can properly bring his vision back into focus he’s being slammed into the side of his car.

“What the fuck, Leonis?”

Cor blinks and the lights blind him again.

“I…”

He’s knocked harder into the car again. It hurts his back. “You piece of shit, what do you think you’re playing at, huh?!”

His mind clears enough to recognize the voice. “Clarus. I… I don’t know...”

“You don’t… you don’t _fucking know?!_ ” Clarus is seething and he’s got Cor’s collar in a death grip. “Are you fucking drunk?”

“What- no!” Cor shakes his head harshly. “Clarus I don’t even know what happened-”

Without warning there’s a fist slamming into the side of his jaw.

“You could’ve got her killed! That’s my wife, Leonis! That’s my… that’s my fucking _kid!_ ”

“Stop!” He hears Delphi scream. “Clarus, for god’s sake-”

Cor’s head is still reeling, so he just stands there, open-mouthed and so very lost. He feels blood drip out past his lips.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve, Leonis-”

“Clarus, _don’t!_ He didn’t do anything wrong! He just spaced out a bit, but he pulled the car over! We’re fine!”

Cor coughs roughly. “I’m sorry… I don’t… I didn’t mean-”

Another fist crashes into his face and this time, he loses balance, sliding down the side of the car to the pavement.

“Gods, _stop!_ Don’t hurt him! He didn’t do anything-” Ears ringing, it sounds like Delphi’s crying but it’s very far away.

“You got every right to just let yourself rot into whatever fucked up hell you think you deserve, but you don’t put _my family_ in danger! _You hear me?!_ ”

“Clarus, I’m sorry-”

“No!” A shout that’s louder than all the traffic. “You let yourself get so far gone, huh? Well stay the fuck away from my _fucking kid_ , so help me gods, Leonis!”

Ringing, _Ringing_. A single piercing note. Clouding all around. The sounds of the police sirens, the sounds of Clarus screaming at him, Delphi crying in the background.

Cor picks himself up off the road and he covers his ears with his hands.

It’s all too much…

“No, you look at me you piece of shit-” Rough arms pulling at him, shoving him into the car again.

He covers his whole face. It’s stinging. And it feels very hot. He tastes blood in his mouth.

It’s too much.

It’s not ok.

“Clarus… Please…”

 _Help me_ , he almost says. 

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just rips away from Clarus’s hold. Spinning around, holding his head in his hands.

“Hey!”

He turns his back to him. He’d try to breathe but he’s lost it. He’s lost all his breath.

He just holds a hand to his throat and thinks about what it had felt like to drown that one time so long ago. And he exhales. He lets the air cloud around him. Just for a second. Lets the night wrap around him, blanket after blanket, like warm honey and milk.

And he runs.

“Hey!”

He keeps running.

Past cars that are speeding by. Into the traffic, the loud sounds, but he doesn’t stop.

“Are you fucking crazy?!”

 _Yes_ , he thinks. He’s not ok. He runs still.

“ _Cor!_ ”

That single second where the sound of his given name sends a knife through the place where his heart used to be- he almost stops.

But he pushes the knife deeper. Deeper, deeper, under his skin and flesh and bones.

And he runs.

And he keeps running.


	12. Chapter 12

Cor runs for a long time.

He runs into the street, past the highway barrier, dodging cars, but he keeps running. He doesn’t even think about getting hit, because no- he has to run. Nothing can stop him.

And nothing does. At least not for a while.

He runs into the city. Passing people, passing buildings. Lights. Noise. He runs.

His breath is long gone so he doesn’t even pause to think about what his chest feels like- that wrenching, awful, hot scorch that shoots up and down his torso. He doesn’t need to breathe. He needs to run.

He needs to run so he doesn’t have to think about bright police lights, angry voices. So he doesn’t have to think about hard fists shoving him, the _look at me you piece of shit_ that sends his mind reeling like it’s caught in a riptide. _No_. 

Cor’s feet pound across the pavement, desperate. He has no idea where he’s even going but it doesn’t matter. Skirting around people walking and people standing still and people staring at him- he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to stop because then he’d have to acknowledge it; whatever sick, disgusting feeling that’s ready to undo him a soon as he lets it.

But in the end- his body can only take so much.

Finding himself staggering into an alleyway, Cor doubles over, lungs about to explode, hands frantically clawing at his throat and he crashes down next to a garbage bin and he gasps and gasps, pulling at his hair while also punching at his chest. He feels like he’s being ripped from his very center. And even though he’s not _trying_ , his body does. His body tries to breathe. And he lets out a wounded sound because it’s so, so painful. But he has to breathe. His body wants him to breathe.

And Cor makes terrible noises; gasping, sobbing, as he struggles to find air. Like a strangulated scream, but once he lets it out, he finds that there’s room in his chest. And he inhales and shudders around the breath. Then he inhales again, makes another half-scream and he tries. He tries to breathe. He wants to breathe.

It takes him awhile.

Head cradled in shaking hands, back pressed hard against cold bricks; he breathes. He hugs his knees close together, curling into a smaller version of himself and he _breathes_.

It’s not perfect; Cor starts coughing after the first few successful breaths, and he can’t quite stop. But the pain is good. And he gets a rhythm after a bit. Deep, long breaths. He’s still shaking though. And that feeling, the one he’d tried to ignore, creeps under his skin and it feels so very much like _fear_ that Cor has to slam his head against the brick wall and grit his teeth so hard in his mouth to stop from screaming again.

He calms down. At least enough. After what’s probably been only a minute, Cor finds himself feeling cold, ass sat down on a slightly damp stretch of pavement. It’s dirty and the smell in the air is gross, but he keeps breathing regardless. He stretches his legs in front of him, nudging a piece of trash with his boot. His face hurts, he realizes. He brings a hand up to caress his jaw and it aches. His tongue prods through his mouth, tasting blood, and it lingers over the two back teeth on his right side; the fake ones he’d had put in after he’d cracked his jaw all those years ago. Cor doesn’t think anything’s broken now; no, Clarus held back at least a little bit. It doesn’t make him feel much better.

He coughs again and he feels a resounding tremor through his chest. Disregarding all common sense and self-preservation, Cor gropes for his packet of cigarettes and lights one. It doesn’t help. The smoke in his mouth aggravates the cut he thinks is in his gum-line, but he exhales and finds that he really doesn’t give a shit.

He smokes three more. Enough for him to shape into something like a human being again.

Cor’s just about to consider what the fuck he’s gonna do next when a voice from the street nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

“You lost, baby?”

A glittery covered stranger slinks toward him and it’s just what Cor needed to motivate himself to stand. He does, and then coughs again.

“Hmmn, need a little care, sugar?”

“I’m good.” Cor’s skin prickles. He shakes out his legs, dusting off the back of his jeans.

The stranger moves closer and they smell weird; like coconut, ash and body sweat and Cor feels a deep, squirmy itchiness up his whole body. 

“You sure? Mmm… c’mon handsome. Sure you don’t need a little tlc? You look troubled baby.”

Cor doesn’t meet their eyes, just barges past before they can put their hands on him and make his skin crawl even worse. “I’m fine.”

There’s something there; something very deep-seated and terrible that Cor doesn’t scratch at. No. He doesn’t let himself linger on what he’s feeling.

Detaching from the alleyway and the stranger, Cor paces down the city street, systematically scrubbing his hands up and down his torso and arms every few seconds. Gods. He feels dirty; his itch is worse than ever. And he thinks some of the cuts from his rash have opened up again. 

_No, you look at me you piece of shit-_

The voice in his head comes with rough arms and Cor halts so abruptly that someone almost walks into his back. _No. C’mon. Don’t think about it_ …

There’s not a lot he can think about though- everything comes with a grip that won’t let go.

He rubs against his wrist, pressing hard. The bruise looks neon in the harsh city lights. _Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want you around no more?_ (More angry voices, more hands, hurting him, they’re always hurting him, it didn’t always used to be this way, right?) Cor stumbles again, bringing his head up into his hands. _Godsdammit_.

He almost covers his ears. But it’s there. An echo. That _name_ , over and over; the one his mom called him- not Cor, not his shitty dimestore cheap excuse of a given name, no, the _other one_ , when she thought he was someone else, when she thought he was-

Cor stops still again.

Right in the middle of Guadium District, with all the lights and all the people and the noise. He stops and everything seems silent. Still.

And he reaches into the inner pocket of his ratty denim jacket and he pulls out the paper, the one he always keeps there. The one that he memorized so it really doesn’t matter. But he looks at it. Traces over the words with a hand that surprisingly isn’t shaking anymore. And he nods, folds it back up neatly, and he starts walking.

He walks forward and his feet take him and his thoughts don’t tell him otherwise. Even though this is a bad idea. He walks forward.

And when he walks he sees the words from memory, like they’re pointing him the right way- _496 Veteris Blvd. little place above laundromat_ , bulletpoint, _works at Durior Architecture, shop down on Altus_ , bulletpoint, _bar on 117 th–Labyrinth– he’s there a lot_. Cor can trace the words with his mind, regardless of how shit Cid’s handwriting is.

Every footstep is another reminder that this is going to be a mistake, but Cor doesn’t care. No. He’s got a destination, an end point.

He needs to do this.

Gods know he never had the courage before; when Cid couldn’t look him in the eye after jotting it all down for him, saying _you don’t gotta do nothin’ with it, son, just know that you’re a good kid_ , and then he bought him that grape soda and they sat in silence and Cor just held the paper trying not to notice how his eyes burned.

His eyes are burning still, but it’s with something else. Anger, maybe. Yeah. _Anger_. He knows anger. He can shape anger.

So he marches on, into the heart of the city. He keeps prodding the cut in his mouth and it stings but it fuels him.

He should stop and realize where he’s headed, notice how close it is. To that shitty apartment they all shared. Gods. Veteris is only the next district over. The anger curdles in his gut making him nauseous. Still, he walks through Jejun Compound like it’s just a blip on a map. A little pin in his oh-so-fucked-up childhood that he doesn’t want to think about right now. No. He walks through dirty side roads, past that shitty school, past the convenience store that he would save up his change to get something, a treat, a candy bar maybe, the ones with the funny stickers- Cor has to force himself to swallow, just swallow it all down. But then he’s coughing again and it feels like acid lacing his very soul, so he huddles against the side of a vending machine and he puts his fists in his eyes and he chews at the inside of his busted up mouth just enough that it hurts, and he keeps moving.

He walks on.

Into Veteris and even though it’s unfamiliar, his feet find the way.

_He’s there a lot_. It’s those words that conclude his route. And before Cor has any chance to talk himself out of whatever the fuck he thinks he’s doing, he’s standing in front of a seedy looking bar, Labyrinth, and he’s walking inside.

(There’s a scene in his head, a not-memory. It goes like this: Cor walks in and sees him there and shouts at him, says all the things he wants to say, the good shit, the _I’m better off without you’s_ , and _the you missed your chance but look at the man I became without your help_. It’s all very profound and moving. And it leaves Cor with a sad sense of fulfillment; because all his cries are met with _I’m sorry_ , and _I never should have left_ , and _will you forgive me?_ And it doesn’t matter if he’ll forgive him, he has that power. The power to choose to get over it. It’s in his hands. And he doesn’t know if it ends in forgiveness or heartache or a fist-fight, it’s in his hands.)

That’s not how it goes.

Cor walks in and every inch of his skin is crawling with such a fierce warning of _danger, danger, no go back_ , but it’s too late. That tiny part of him hoping he’d walk in and he wouldn’t be there, yeah, it gets a knife to the carotid as soon as he sees the stooped figure by the bar, just the back of the head. It’s enough.

Brown hair now gone grey in parts. A broad, strong back. The dangling chain of beads still coming out his back pocket. 

It’s with this simple sight that Cor realizes he’d fucked up.

But he’s standing there, arms shaking. Standing in the doorway and someone looks his way. Not the one he’s looking at, but someone else, and this guy gives him a perplexed look and nudges the one at the bar, the one Cor’s looking at, and then he turns and he’s looking at Cor too. They’re looking at each other.

And there’s that split second where Cor dreams up that ridiculous fuck-all fantasy but it flashes before his eyes and then in an instant it’s scattered across his subconscious like hot ash and he’s left feeling burned and scared and very, very stupid.

The man nods at him, something like a wry smile splitting his dog-tired face. And Cor’s legs move and he’s walking forward. His hands are numb, but he walks toward him. Towards the man he hadn’t seen in half his lifetime.

Ares Leonis has a way about him; so they say.

Cor never really understood it, but his ma told him that _boy, your daddy’s slicker than oil_ , and at the time Cor thought it just meant he was dirty, but after a bit he realized that yeah, dad’s got this quality; when he talks to people, they listen; and when he moves, it’s exciting. Cor always liked hearing stories about his dad growing up, the rumbles down at the dirt lots, the times he got chased around by the blues for filching from the back of the liquor store. Yeah. He would move his hands all around and that just made the stories better. Captivating. And his face was always so expressive. So charming. A handsome guy, people said, even though he wore his shortcomings like war paint, but it didn’t detract from that. It made him more genuine. At least Cor liked to think. And when people said _yeah boy, you’re gonna look just like your daddy_ , he never thought it was a bad thing. 

He does now.

If he wasn’t already caught in a stroke of shock, Cor would’ve stopped short at seeing his father up close; gods, the resemblance is startling.

As it is, Cor stands there open-mouthed and pitiful for too long to get in his rousing speech it seems, and it gives Ares the first shot, and just like that- it’s out of his hands.

“Well, shit.”

Cor just stares. Every line of retribution just dies on his tongue.

A low whistle. “Look at you. Damn, you got tall.”

A choking sound escapes Cor’s mouth, followed by a pathetic “You know who I am?”

There’s a small chuckle. Ares’s whole face shapes around it, the little creases around his eyes and mouth. His eyes sparkle a bit too. “Yeah, I know you.”

“No you don’t.” Cor’s voice cracks and a part of himself does too.

A tiny silence, followed by an honest sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”

Cor just stands there. Staring. Falling apart piece by piece, memory by memory.

“Hmn, now this is a rare occurrence. Never thought I’d run into you here of all places. Thought you was livin’ all high and mighty now. What’re you doin’ diggin’ up a millstone like me?”

Cor can’t think of how to respond. His mind just keeps spitting out shit like _did you miss me?, are you proud of me?_ It’s excruciatingly tragic.

“Have it your way. Still, face like that, someone’s gonna notice the resemblance.” Another chuckle. His eyes trace over Cor’s face and he has to physically force himself to keep still. His hands shake even so. “You been fightin’ boy? Ain’t seen you so beat up since that time you thought you could take on all of those brats down on Vanitas-”

“Yeah well you ain’t seen me a lotta times, yeah?” Cor cuts in. “So you don’t get to say shit.”

“That’s fair.” _Gods_. Cor can’t look away. Ares gives him such a look that it makes him feel like that child again. Small, alone, _waiting_. Cor can feel pressure build up behind his eyelids.

Ares takes a sip of his drink, then stands and Cor steps back, almost stumbling over a chair. He’s taller than his father, that much is clear. Suddenly he’s swept away with the memory of the two of them standing back to back, then up against the corner of the doorframe as his dad pencils in the mark of his height while Cor giggles, trying to get away with stretching on his toes. He’s taller than him now. He’s taller.

“I guess it has been a while, huh?” Ares puts a weathered hand on Cor’s shoulder and he can’t even shake it off. He can’t move. There’s that sound, the clanking sound of the beads his father keeps. He used to wait for that sound. “Can’t say I expected to see ya, but I guess it was bound to happen.”

The hand is retracted and Cor watches Ares swipe up his hair, slicking it into place off his forehead. It sends a sick little twist through his stomach; seeing that, gods, with his hair growing out, he really does look more like him.

Cor incites enough of his dignity to scrounge up a reply.

“You left.”

Yeah, no, his dignity is long gone. The way that Cor’s voice breaks on the word _left_ just seals it. And the pressure mounting in his head doesn’t thank him either.

Ares gives a bare-faced shrug. “Yeah. I did.”

“ _Why?_ ” Gods, it comes out all raspy. Barely contained. Cor’s fingers twist in the fabric of his jacket, he feels like he wants to break them all in half, one by one.

“Fuck, kid.” Ares lets out a long sigh, shuffles his hair again. The lines on his face change. “That’s a loaded question.”

“I don’t care. Just tell me.” Cor can barely see.

“What do you want me to say? It was… It was a lot goin’ on, y’know? I had my own shit to deal with, and you and your mom… I didn’t want to bring that down upon you guys, y’know… even though, yeah it was pretty fucked up-” If he just looks at the way his face moves, Cor can read a whole study into his father’s reactions. He doesn’t know if it helps. But there’s real remorse there and something about that just makes Cor want to rip his skin off.

“I was ten.” Cor says, voice surprisingly steady.

“I know, gods, I know-”

“It was my birthday.”

_Cold in the dark, waiting, waiting, to see that face, a smile in the morning, a ‘hey kiddo c’mon and get up now’, to be pulled out of his nest of blankets, waiting, waiting, waiting…._

“Shit, kid. I fucked up alright?” The guilt-carved lines on his face might as well be a consolation prize. Cor’s not having it.

“You left us.” His voice is low, nearly a snarl. 

“It was… it was a lotta things, ok? It’s just… fuck. It wasn’t easy. Alright? I mean… you know how your mama was.” Cor sees red. “She wasn’t an easy person to be around, especially then. Gods, I don’t even think she knew what was goin’ on half the time. Too stupid to even realize all the signs I was dropping that I needed to leave-”

“Shut the fuck up!” Cor has to stop himself from taking a swipe at him. “You don’t get to talk about her!” 

“Fuck. Yeah, alright. I know. I know I fucked up. Bad.” Ares sighs again. “It wasn’t anything about you, kid. Just know that. I had my own problems. I just thought it would be… better off, y’know?”

“Better off for who?”

“Don’t give me that, kid. I’m sorry, alright? That what you wanna hear?”

Cor swallows. He just keeps swallowing. Even though his throat has a knife through it.

“Listen, I messed up. I know that, yeah? I know, I never should’ve left you like that, ok? I even tried… y’know, making amends or whatever. But it turns out your mama doesn’t wanna hear my bullshit either-”

“You don’t fucking _talk to her!_ ” Cor’s voice raises and he knows that people are looking at them. “You-” he makes a noise like a growl and _fuck_ mixed together, he can’t even feel his hands. “You don’t get to show up and see her! You don’t get to give her your stupid fucking beads and _apologize!_ Alright? Cuz she might be too fucking stupid to see through you, but I’m not! I won’t let you fucking apologize cuz I _won’t fucking hear it!_ ”

Cor’s right up next to him, holding his shirt. He’s panting and his vision’s going fuzzy. And up close he can see that Ares’s eyes are the same shade of blue as his and it makes him want to gouge them out of his own head, but he’s taller than him. He’s taller, he’s stronger, he’s better.

He removes his grip and he makes a low growl again, bringing his hands up to his own hair, wanting to rip it out.

“Shit. You really do look like me, kid.”

“ _Don’t._ ”

“Guess that anger’s hereditary too.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s funny, I mean, yeah, I get people around always askin’ if, _hey do you know Cor Leonis?_ And I have to stop myself every time, cuz sometimes it hurts to think about it. It’s so weird, seein’ you on tv and stuff. Getting’ all famous-”

“Just fucking stop-”

“I swear I wasn’t into, y’know, selling all your secrets and such. But some guys came up and said, _hey man you look just like that Leonis guy_ , and so I told ‘em, and they wanted a few stories, I don’t know. They were reporters or something. So I gave ‘em a few tidbits and that picture I kept and then one of ‘em told me where your mom was livin’ so I thought I would try to, I don’t know, try to get back in contact-”

“You don’t have the fucking right!” Cor’s grabbing him again before he can stop himself. “You don’t get to just…” Fuck, he starts to blur. “To just… choose to care again!”

Flashes in his head like hot cinders, singeing his mind, his vision, his control. It’s out of his hands.

A voice interrupts. “Hey, Ar, you alright over here?”

“It’s fine Denny, everything’s A-Ok.” And just like that his father slides into that slick charm, that filthy-smooth character. And Cor can see now that he is just dirty. He’s dirty and a liar and a cheat and Cor doesn’t want him putting his hands on him ever again. Not even to pull him out of it all.

“Just gettin’ a little heated, but it’s all within reason.” Sly, drawling voice. Cor hates it. He hates it. He hates how he tried to emulate that once; that deeper, uncaring voice.

“You stay away from me.” He thinks he says. But maybe he doesn’t because Ares keeps going.

Yeah, Ares is tipping his head towards him, grinning slimily at the other guy, saying, “This is my kid, from a long time ago. Hah.” That laugh nearly sends Cor spiraling. “Yeah, this is my son.”

“I’m not your son.” He does say this out loud at least. Voice now a raspy whisper.

Ares just puts up a defensive hand, face wrinkling into something like assent. “If you say so, kid. But hell, my good looks ain’t the only thing you still got.” He brings his hands up to Cor’s jacket, rubbing a finger against one of the frayed collars. “Guess your momma didn’t throw out all my stuff then. Looks good on ya, kid.”

A feeling of molten cruelty fills Cor’s stomach. He just blinks. 

The other guy chimes in and Cor doesn’t even see a face, it doesn’t matter. “Hey you’re that famous soldier. The Immortal, right? Godsdamn, yeah I can see you’re Ares’s boy alright. Look at that.”

More easy laughter. Cor’s eyes burn. “Yeah, can’t believe how this one turned out, huh? Was always a fighter, this kid. Makin’ a big name for himself now.” Ares slaps a hand across his shoulders and Cor stiffens. “Who woulda thought he’d be, what? The youngest to serve in the guard, that right?”

The other guy nods. “Yeah, yeah. And one of the King’s most trusted allies, from what I hear.”

Ares rubs on Cor’s back and it feels like every self-inflicted knife slash to the heart that Cor enacted on himself that day, walking the streets in December, hands numb, face frozen with grief, with the realization. _I guess I wasn’t worth it_. That’s what he said to himself, in his head. He still hears it echo in every fucked up thing he does, _he’s not worth it, he never was_...

But Ares is talking still. He’s talking and rubbing Cor’s back and Cor just wants to tear his arm off and snap it in two, if not for himself than for that boy. That boy who woke up on his tenth birthday, waiting, waiting, then crawling out from under his tent of blankets to find an empty house, just a vacant hollow of a place where something used to live and be happy once; his ribcage feels the same now. But he doesn’t move. He just stands there. Assaulted by _you’re not worth it, you were never worth anything_ …

“I mean I always knew the kid had talent. Even when he was small he was a godsdamn champ, right kid?” Ares drones on. “But man, it’s always somethin’ seein’ his face on the news. Standing next to the King and stuff. I think, damn. Who woulda thought? That’s my boy, Cor.”

Without warning, Cor spins and grabs Ares, slamming him into the wall. “I’m not your fucking son.”

There’s something there; something real in his cold blue eyes. Cor doesn’t even need to read his face, it’s all in the eyes. 

“You don’t get to walk around saying that either. I’m not your son, you piece of shit.”

“Fine. Fine.” And he nods. He nods and closes those dangerous eyes. And the other guy backs away, recognizing the severity of it all.

Cor holds his father against the wall, shaking, panting. He’s so close, he’s touching him, he’s taller than him now.

“I don’t know what to say. I fucked up. I fucked it all up, alright?” Cor doesn’t look at his face. It hurts too much. “You were a good kid. You didn’t deserve it. I’m sorry, alright? I don’t know what else to say other than I messed up big. I know it’s not enough. Just… gods, kid, will you forgive me?”

Cor feels acid burn up his windpipe, a filthy mix of bile and hatred and anger that tastes so different than before but it’s so much stronger. He leans into Ares, real close. “You will never be a part of my life again. So help me gods. Do you understand?”

Ares fumbles, face stretched in some grotesque form of empathy. “Kid, I-”

Reaching down to that back pocket, Cor wrenches the beads from Ares’s possession, bringing them up in both hands and snapping the line. A scattering sound of dozens of tiny projectiles interrupts the heavy silence. He watches them fall, rolling around on the dirty floor. He crushes one with his boot, digging in deeper, closer to Ares’s face. “If you ever go near mom again, if you even say one word to her, _I’ll fucking kill you_.” He feels a shudder. “Believe me when I say I know how to fucking get away with it.”

Ares’s eyes shine and Cor feels the acid in his throat lurch. He turns it into a sick little laugh that sounds like something so wrong, something so unlike himself, but it’s better.

He uses it. “I never wanna see your fucking face again, alright Leonis?” The name is almost choked out, but he manages.

“Kid-”

“Don’t.” That sick laugh again. “It’s funny, you get to see my face all the time, on the tv, in the papers. Just know that I will _never see your face again_. That’s a fucking promise.” He pauses to breathe, shallow, hollow. “And I don’t break my promises.”

With that he lets him go. He stands back, he doesn’t look him in the eyes. He lets him go. And he shakes out his arms even though they’re going numb. And he swipes the hair off his forehead even though it’s just another reminder. And he starts walking away.

“Cor.”

He doesn’t turn around. He can’t look back. He won’t look back.

“I’m… I’m proud of you kid.”

Sharp, excruciation rips through his chest for just a second. But then the numbness from his limbs spreads through his whole body, and it’s like warm, heavy hands holding him underwater. Ready to drown him if he wants it.

No.

He gave his heart to the army. To war. Just so that he wouldn’t have to feel this way. 

So he doesn’t turn. He keeps walking. He won’t turn and see if there’s an outstretched hand, a wry smile. No. He won’t look at him ever again.

That’s a promise.

So Cor walks away, out the door, into the city street.

And he lets himself drown, just a little bit.

And then he feels something bubbling in his chest, burning, burning, and he runs, before staggering into an alley and crashing onto his knees, bile spilling out of his mouth, hot and vicious, and he’s shaking and coughing, barely able to hold himself up. And each heave is another onslaught of _you’re not worth it, you’re not worth it_. And he’s making terrible, guttural sounds that sound like every last word he’d ever heard on a dying soldier’s lips, every animal sound of a beast with a sword through its neck.

And his skin is on fire. Cor tears the jacket off- that ratty, disgusting hand-me-down that feels like sandpaper and sadism against his body. And gods, if he could, he’d rip all his skin off with it. Just so that he doesn’t have to be this way. Just so that he can hold true to his promise. Because he knows it’s not true. He’d see Ares’s face every time he looks in the mirror, in every line of age that cracks across his skin, in every pathetic excuse he uses to avoid giving a shit about the people who care about him.

So he rakes his nails against his chest, slips them under his back t-shirt and he’s cold, cold, cold, but he ravages his skin so that maybe it feels something like warmth. Something that isn’t _I’m sorry, I never should have left, will you forgive me?..._

He throws up again, bracing his hand against the solid wall. He coughs and makes more awful sounds, and he coughs some more. And there’s a rattling in his chest that makes him think that maybe his chest is hollow after all. But it’s been emaciated. So maybe there isn’t room for warmth anymore.

Hunching forward, Cor slams his arms against the bricks. Ice-cold fury tracing up his nerves. He fucked up. He never should’ve walked in there.

But he needed to.

He needed to break that last bit; that ripcord around his neck called _hope_ , like those fucking beads, he needed to break it and let it go.

For that boy. The one in the corner of his empty chest that calls out, an echo, _why weren’t you proud of me then? why wasn’t I enough then?_

Cor punches the wall again and he shoves his chest against it. Gasping. Then he collapses down it, sliding into a position where he can hold his whole body in his arms. He kicks at the denim jacket that’s thrown down in front of him. He thrusts it away frantically. It’s all covered in wet, muddy grime now. Good. It’s dirty. It’s a piece of trash.

He holds himself in his arms. Slamming his head back into the wall every few seconds. Just so he doesn’t cry. He’s at the point where that tactile numbness threatens to undo him and he doesn’t even bother suppressing it. Yeah. Let him drown. He’s at the point where he wants to call out to someone, call out for his friends, for Clarus even, for a stranger offering tlc, he doesn’t give a shit. He’s at the point where _help_ seems like such a simple demand.

But right now, there’s no one. So help comes in the form of letting his mind wash away with dissociative coldness. That soft nihilistic blanket that helps him stand up. Helps him get up off the floor and move.

And walk. To anywhere. It doesn’t matter. It’s out of his hands.

He walks for a long time.

It’s January, and all he has is a flimsy black t-shirt, but the numbness keeps him from feeling the cold. From feeling anything.

He walks.

Into the city. Into the loud noises, the lights, the flashy stuff that makes him dizzy. He walks through it rather than in it. Like he’s somewhere else and his body is just a shell that can move on its own.

It’s late. He walks for hours, he thinks. He can’t feel his fingers at all. There’s a nascent buzzing in his head that he doesn’t really pay attention to, but if he did, it might sound like music, like a lullaby or a prayer.

He finds himself walking down steps, through to the metro station. He fishes out some coins from his wallet, lets them sink into the machine and he gives it a kick for some reason. He keeps walking.

Down a platform. More stairs. He stands and watches the trains come and go, whizzing past, like little tiny glimpses that he’d never touch. Like not-memories.

He boards a train, a random one. He doesn’t even care where it’s going. He just walks in and finds an empty corner, near the bars, and he sits down on the floor. Huddles himself up into the shadows, head propped between his knees. Scratching at his chest like a punishment. Leaking rivulets of blood. 

And he studies the train floor, the grubby laminated tiles. He counts them all, tracing the patterns. The collection of smudges and stains and filth that might’ve been the first sight he ever saw, when he was born so long ago.

And he wonders how long he can sit there without anyone noticing. If he started screaming would they even care? How long did they let his mother cry without offering her a hand?

He sits there a long time.

No one even says a word to him. But it’s fine.

He doesn’t want to be recognized now. He doesn’t want to be Cor Leonis right now. He’d rather be just some fucked-up guy, some deranged lunatic, someone who screams and yells and tears their own skin off, but no one pays any mind to it. Because they don’t want to be around that. He would ignore that guy too. He wouldn’t want to be around him either.

At some point, he’s walking again. Outside. There’s a light collection of frost in the air that just contributes to his numbness. He just walks and walks and walks.

Some part of himself must be seeking comfort, because after a while his head clears enough to recognize that he’s on his way home.

There’s a stretch of time, maybe two minutes, where Cor stands by the corner mini-mart and he coughs deeply into his arm enough to focus on it and see that his skin is tinged blue. He shakes it out but he still can’t really feel it. His head feels heavy, and he’s tired. Gods. He’s exhausted. He can’t remember the last time he slept. But it’s morning now, he thinks. The colors are lighter and everything seems to be draped in a kind of stillness.

He wants to go home. He just wants to go home.

It’s good. He’ll go home and wrap himself up in his blankets and he’ll sleep a long, long time. The fact that he wants that is enough. He’s trying.

He may not be worth anything, but he won’t let himself die. He tries even when he’s half-broken. They don’t call him Immortal for nothing.

So Cor walks home.

And his head clears enough. Enough to provide rational thoughts, even though the catastrophe of last night is still fresh. He slaps his face a few times. His jaw still hurts. But it’s ok.

He’s walking up the street to his apartment building and there’s a sight up ahead. A curly red mop, standing by the bus station. He almost smiles. But then he sees something else. A figure.

He moves closer.

And he can hear the voices now.

“I said I don’t know nothin’ mister!”

“But you know that he lives here right? Can you give me any details-”

His heart stops.

“Hey!” The sound of Cor’s voice is hoarse from coughing, but it cuts across the stillness like a blade.

The two heads turn his way and Cor sees Agnes’s eyes widen. And next to her is that piece of shit reporter, camera out, and he’s got his hand on her arm, tugging slightly and Cor just fucking _loses it_.

“Get your fucking hands off her.” He lunges forward.

“Ah, Captain Leonis! Care to give a comment about the incident from last night-”

_Whack!_

Cor doesn’t hold anything back before cracking the guy across the face with a hard fist. “You don’t fucking touch her, you hear me?” He punches the guy again. And again.

“Mr. Cor-”

“You stay the fuck away, so help me gods” _Whack!_

The reporter is lilting in his hold, but Cor just keeps assailing. “I… I didn’t mean-”

 _Whack!_ “No. You filthy fucking piece of trash! You stay away from here.”

_Whack, whack whack!_ “I’ll fucking kill you if you touch her again!”

_Whack!_

_Whack!_

“ _Mr. Cor_.” It’s such a small plea.

Cor barely hears her, but then there’s a tug on his arm. His ice-cold arm. The tiny hand feels warm. _Tiny, tiny…_

He swipes around, fist still outstretched, panting, eyes wild.

And if he still had a heart, it would break again.

Agnes stares at him with such a look of… fear, confusion, _terror_.

Cor backs up, letting the limp weight of the reporter fall to the ground. He just stands there, hand extended, covered in blood. Agnes stares.

And the numbness returns, but this time it’s heavy, it’s so heavy Cor feels himself crushing under it. He staggers. Holding out his hand to the girl still. He coughs harshly, saying “Agnes, I…” He chokes on it. Hot, heavy shock keeping his throat closed.

He runs.

He doesn’t even stop after he hears his name again.

No.

He keeps running.

Up the stairs. To his apartment. He throws the door open. He stands there.

Gasping, gasping. He starts to tug at his hair, tug at his shirt. He starts to claw at his skin. But then he looks down at his hands and they’re red, red, red and he just stands there, gaping at them.

He fucked up.

It’s too late. Gods, he’s worthless, so worthless…

_I’m… I’m proud of you kid._

No. No no no no. That single thought like a bullet rips in his mind and he throws himself to the floor because he doesn’t want to hear it, doesn't want him to proud, doesn't want to know that he looks like him, to know that he's just like him... he doesn’t want to think anymore.

_I’m not worth anything, I’m not, I’m not I’m not…_

He holds his head and it hurts so much, it’s heavy, so heavy… so he drowns.

He’s broken and raw and it hurts, so he lets it go.

It’s out of his hands now.

He lets the numbness hijack his whole body. Spreading like a slick, warm film. And he lays there on the floor.

(It’s like that time, in the jungle, where he lost a part of himself. Something that doesn’t grow back. Something buried deep beneath all the muscle and sinew and bone.)

So he lets it go.

He shuts it all down. The noise, the pain, the words.

It’s out of his hands.

And it’s all… very still.


	13. Chapter 13

Getting her grandchild up and ready for school, a goodbye wave at the door not seven minutes past, only to have the child come barreling back into the apartment raving about some altercation was not quite how Lenore Blazek would describe a perfect morning. As it is, with Agnes red in the face, near tears it seems, Lenore can already get the sense that this morning would be far from perfect.

The child can barely form words, hands flailing about, so stricken by some force of alarm that Lenore has to place two tender hands on either side of her face to get her to calm down.

It’s enough for Lenore to surmise two things: one, her grandchild is energetic even in her distress, and two… there’s something terribly wrong with the Leonis boy.

Placating the child with a practiced “I’m sure everything will be alright, dear”, Lenore has to brace for the possibility that something could be very wrong indeed.

Cor Leonis was always a bit of a mystery, but- blame it on maternal instincts- Lenore always had a soft spot for the kid. When he’d first moved into the apartment block, Lenore caught him quickly trying to hide the evidence of what appeared to be a mangled set of blinds in the garbage disposal room- the boy all of nineteen, blushing with a hurried “I’ll pay for it”. Lenore had given him her softest chuckle, as well as an offer to help install the new blinds when they arrived. It became an unspoken thing; and whether it is maternal instincts or not, Lenore had always put it in her mind that she’d help the boy whenever she could.

Like now.

Gathering enough from her granddaughter’s tirade, Lenore begins to paint a picture of a young man pushed to the brink, and if Leonis’s recent exhausted appearance and concerning behavior is any indicator, the elderly woman thinks that the boy may be in need of a little… help.

So she walks down to his door, Agnes a jittery mess at her side, and she resigns herself to sorting it all out.

Lenore knocks and there’s no answer. She hums quietly.

“Gramma, I know he’s in there. He went off runnin’ and I couldn’t stop him…”

Steeling for a worst case scenario, Lenore crouches herself lower (aching back be damned), to her granddaughter’s height and tries to keep her voice as level as possible. “Now, dear. I’m sure Mr. Leonis is alright. But I think I’ll go have a check in on him, hm? Just wait here for a bit, alright?”

Agnes’s response is a frantic nod. She’s still clutching her book-bag with a tight grip, eyes a bit too wide and fearful. Lenore pats her head once, before turning the doorknob.

“Mr. Leonis?” She inquires, before peeking a quick glance inside.

There’s no noise, no sign of life really and good heavens, is the apartment inside as cold as ever! Lenore begins to think the boy may not even be inside at all, but she sees a lump by the couch and squints enough to discern two legs shivering from it.

She spares herself a second for a silent prayer. _Astrals above... let him be alright_. 

Lenore swallows heavily. “Ok, Aggy,” She practically whispers. “Just wait outside, right? I’m just gonna have a little chat.”

The child nods, and then Lenore is entering the apartment, door shut behind her.

She takes a deep breath before saying. “I just came to check on you, dear.”

The body- now that Lenore can see, the boy’s got himself huddled up on the floor by the couch- is shaking violently, arms wrapped around legs, face hidden.

Lenore walks closer, but the boy shows no signs of even noticing her presence. “Agnes says you ran off in such a state. Do you… do you need any help, sweetie?”

There’s no response from Leonis. Just more shaking.

Cursing her already tender back, Lenore begins to kneel in front of him, one hand braced on the back of the couch. Carefully, she reaches out the other hand to place it on the boy’s arm. And gods, it’s cold as ice. And now that she’s closer, she can see the boy has red-stained knuckles, gripped tightly around his shivering form. But he doesn’t react to her touch. She persists.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m just here to help if you need it. Wanna tell me what’s been goin’ on?”

She thinks the boy makes a sound, that he might be trying to respond. But all it is is a suppressed cough, wrought from where he’s got his head crushed into his legs.

“Cor, dear.” She tries, feeling her heart break bit by bit. “Won’t you look at me, son?”

He does stir a bit. Maybe just to cough some more. But Lenore catches a glimpse of his face and she nearly lets out a sympathetic sound. She keeps rubbing his arm as if that’ll coax him from his misery.

The boy’s face is a study in suffering, Lenore thinks. When he peeks his head up, she can see the line of stitches she’d helped tend to, cutting across his forehead like a jagged crack, but he’s got new marks as well- a blue-black bruise spreading from his lower jaw, a vicious split in his lip that’s half crusted over. And under his eyes- shadowy smudges that make them look sunken in. And maybe that’s the worst of it- Cor’s eyes have no light in them. They’re just dark, empty things.

He holds himself still, vacant eyes staring at nothing. He holds himself in his arms that look near-blue.

Lenore feels her heart squeeze in protest, but she knows she has to ask. For his safety. “Sweetheart… have you… have you hurt yourself?”

The boy doesn’t respond. Just keeps staring emptily. Lenore adjusts her legs so that she’s seated in front of him, wishing she was several decades younger. But her compassion always overrules discomfort. She places both hands on his freezing arms, as gentle as possible. He releases a violent shiver and then another cough that he tries to stifle. He still hasn’t said a word. But it’s as much confirmation as Lenore needs.

“Ok.” She says with resolve, then makes to stand up, only stumbling a little. From her grip on the couch, Lenore seizes a blanket that had been thrown on it. She wastes no time in wrapping the boy up, even when he still won’t acknowledge her being there. If anything, there’s a little moment where he almost relaxes into the blanket and it’s enough for Lenore to keep going. “Gotta get you warm boy. Heaven’s sake, can’t have you runnin’ around in the cold. No, c’mon now. I’ll make you somethin’ nice and hot, yeah? Get you all fixed up.”

There’s that moment of hesitation where Lenore fears the boy may be too lost in his apathy to understand, but when she tugs on his arms, urging him into standing, he does.

Leonis is tall, so the elderly woman has to guide him with an arm that doesn’t reach his shoulders. In fact, it’s more like an almost-hug, so Lenore uses that moment to just… hold the boy, if only for a few seconds. Infusing a tiny bit of warmth. And maybe he sighs just a little. Inclining his head down just a fraction.

(All those time before; the boy had never _asked_ for help. Never came running to her door for a favor, for a helping hand. But that’s just it; Lenore wouldn’t deprive a man of comfort because he never asked for it. Maybe those are the ones who need it most.)

So she escorts the young man out of his apartment, nodding to her granddaughter with another “I’m sure everything will be alright, dear”, and she brings him to their living room, sits him down on the sofa. She doesn’t try to pry, doesn’t try to focus on the way his eyes don’t move, the way the blanket wrapped around him settles like an unseen weight on his shaking shoulders. The poor Leonis boy; Lenore doesn’t want to know what makes a young man like that _break_ , but she’ll do what she can to help pick up the pieces.

“Mr. Cor… are you ok?” Agnes’s voice hides none of her anxiety. Yet, since his arrival, the child has kept a distance, and Lenore isn’t sure when she’d ever seen her grandchild sit so… still.

“Mr. Leonis isn’t feeling very well, dear.” It’s as much of an excuse as she’d allow.

“Oh.” The dejection in Agnes’s voice settles in the room heavily. Lenore sees her open and close her mouth a few times, but she resorts back to her awkward silence.

Cor still hasn’t said a word. But he’s coughed a few times; deep, resonating things. And he keeps holding his arms around his middle, like a protection of sorts.

Lenore finishes heating up the kettle and begins preparing three cups of rich, indulgent hot chocolate.

“Mr. Cor…” The small, sad sound of her grandchild trying to cope with the uncertainty tugs at Lenore’s heartstrings. “I know you didn’t mean to… uh… I know you only hit that guy to protect me or somethin’… but I didn’t tell ‘im nothin’ about you, ok? I wouldn’t tell no one nothin’ that’d get you in trouble. Cuz I don’t wanna see you in trouble…”

Agnes barely reacts as Lenore hands her the hot cocoa. That in itself should speak for the general disquiet. There’s a tense moment where Lenore can see Agnes scrunch her face up, as if in pain. She’s almost afraid this whole morning might be too much for the young girl to deal with. 

But her grandchild has a quality (gods know Lenore has a lot to put up with, but this particular trait is one of the many reasons Lenore loves her so). So when Agnes holds out her other hand, extended towards the Leonis boy with gusto, the elderly woman gives a silent thanks to whatever Astral has made Agnes shine so brightly.

“C’mon, Mr. Cor!” She exclaims, pulling at his locked arms. “If you don’t hurry, I’ll take all the mini marshmallows for myself! Muahaha!”

And even though the boy is still listless, he stands and follows her. That’s just the way of Agnes.

Lenore watches as her granddaughter begins to prattle about all the excellent merits of hot cocoa; there are several, it seems. And when it appears that the boy isn’t tempted by his drink, Agnes grabs both of his hands to wrap around his mug and practically shoves his face forward into it. He drinks it. And for a second, his eyes close and Lenore thinks he may shake out of whatever funk he’s in. But he doesn’t speak still.

Agnes, taking just a second to deflate, leans into his shoulder. “What’s wrong, Mr. Cor?” Huh? Don’t you wanna tell me how deeeeelicious it is?”

The boy just coughs again.

Agnes swivels her head around to find her grandmother, eyes alight and arms going up in a _what should I do?_ pose. Lenore just fixes her a sympathetic look, most of her concern still focused on the Leonis boy.

In the warmth of their apartment, the boy looks sickly pale, the bruises on his face a stark contrast. Lenore doesn’t like the way he keeps rubbing against his chest, head slightly bowed. Like he's being weighed down by something wicked. But he isn’t all vacant anymore. He does nod slightly in regards to Agnes’s antics, nothing like a smile yet, but Lenore can see the pieces coming together, bit by bit.

“Aggy, dear. I’m sure Mr. Leonis is just not up to talking yet.”

“Oh.” Agnes sags, wrinkling her face in Cor’s direction. Then, in typical Agnes fashion, she perks up impossibly fast, finger in the air. “Aha!” And she dashes off into her bedroom without explanation. Even if Cor wasn’t in such a lethargic state, Lenore reckons the boy would have a hard time keeping up with whatever just happened.

Just as quickly, Agnes returns triumphantly. She plops herself at the table next to Cor, shoving something in front of him. Lenore can see it’s those bright pink sticky notes she’d asked the girl not to go leaving on the poor boy’s door every morning. But Cor had said he hadn’t minded. Bless him.

There’s a bit of a reaction. Cor blinks a few times. And his face furrows a bit. Agnes nudges his arm again. “If you don’t wanna talk that’s fine. We can just use these!”

Cherishing her sweet enthusiasm, Lenore watches on as Agnes begins scribbling on a sticky note pad of her own, face rather contemplative. She can see now the note her granddaughter’s written: _So what’s wrong with you anyway?_ Not very subtle, that kid.

At first, Lenore thinks the Leonis boy won’t bother responding. He’s blinking still, one arm rubbing against his chest slowly. But then the other rises, grabs the pen Agnes had left by his mug.

Lenore doesn’t feel like snooping, but she’s able to read his reply: _A lot of things_. 

Agnes audibly huffs, sneaking him a perplexed look. She scrawls another note, slapping it on top of that one.

_-How come you’re not talking???_

Leonis takes a second, breathing in an out. He starts to write, then pauses. He closes his eyes tight. Then finishes.

_-I don’t know what to say about it all._

Agnes nods as if that’s enough. And maybe it is. She writes again.

_-That’s ok. Sometimes I don’t know how to say stuff either._

Lenore swears the boy almost smiles. But he closes his eyes quickly again, a slight nod.

Agnes is already smacking another note on top of the pile.

_-How come you look like such a mess?_

Leonis huffs this time, barely perceptible.

_-I’m very tired._

The squinty eyes of suspicion shape Agnes’s whole face, but she nods.

_-How come? Are you not sleeping good?_

The boy writes a reply, placing it gently on the pile.

- _Not really. Haven’t slept in a few days I think._

Agnes is barely able to contain her disbelief, opening her mouth quickly before remembering, then writing at a rapid pace with copious exclamations.

- _WHHAAAT?!! Well that’s just dumb!!! Why don’t you just sleep ahhh!!!!!_

The reply comes after some contemplation.

- _I wish it was that simple._

Agnes nods with a look of pretend understanding. She holds the pen to her lips, humming softly. Then she brings her hand up, an “oh!” escaping before she covers her mouth with her hand and she begins scribbling a solution. 

- _Whenever I can’t sleep or get bad dreams, gramma gives me herbal tea that smells like grass, but actually tastes real good!_

Lenore smiles quietly. Bless that child.

She leaves the table for a moment, just letting the two get through whatever stunted conversation is necessary to help the boy heal. Lingering in the kitchen, Lenore procures the bottle of salve that she keeps. The boy’s clearly gone through a bit of rough-housing, if his face is any indication. It wouldn’t do to have his wounds left without any proper care.

Lenore wonders if her simple ointment is enough to heal all his wounds, and thinks not.

Still, it’s something.

The note pile has grown in size and Lenore is pleased to see that the boy is carrying himself a bit better. Although, he keeps cradling his chest with an almost absent-minded fervor.

She approaches. “Cor, dear. Would you like me to clean up that face of yours a bit?”

He nods and she practically beams at him.

“That’s it, dear. Handsome boy like you, gotta keep yourself nice and fixed up.”

Agnes has her body half-arched onto the table, writing another note, and she tilts her head sideways to look at Cor. The boy does well to maintain his detachment, even as Lenore prepares to rub some salve against his scuffed skin. The tiny scrape on his cheekbone is quickly covered, and Lenore is considerate as she passes over it. Cor closes his eyes, breathing softly.

“I swear this stuff is a miracle-worker, right Aggy?”

The child nods emphatically, two thumbs up. “Yeah, gramma put it all over this nasty slice I had from when I tripped into a garbage can when I was roller-bladin’, made it go away lickety-split!”

Lenore can feel Cor snort under her hands. He’s tugging at his t-shirt, though. Fingers gnarled into awkward shapes, scratching at the fabric.

“Ok, let me see about this lip here. Tsk, tsk.” She dabs at the cut with a cloth first, wiping away some of the bloody residue. Cor’s fingers continue their ritualistic scrabbling. She tries to ignore it as she continues cleaning up his face, but it’s hard not to notice.

“And the knuckles.” She says, because she’d seen them before. The whole altercation with whatever gentlemen he’d punched outside isn’t a story she even needs clarifying on. She knows the boy was trying to protect her granddaughter, and that’s enough for her.

There’s a moment where Cor struggles with removing his hand from the t-shirt. The other is already on the table, but Lenore thinks the boy might just leave the remaining one to its assault on his chest.

“Cor, dear, let me see your hands.”

He obliges. But there’s that almost pained look on his face that just fuels Lenore’s concern. She doesn’t know how to broach the subject of his other wounds. Once finished with his knuckles, she wraps them in bandages, placing them gently back down on the table. She can see he’s already started contorting his fingers, itching to get back to his chest. There’s no easy way to do this.

“Aggy, honey?” She turns to her granddaughter, who’s been watching her remedying with gratuitous enthusiasm. “Do you think you could find somethin’ for Mr. Leonis to wear? Somethin’ warmer. We still have some of your daddy’s old things up in the top of the wardrobe, yeah?”

There’s a painful sentiment there, but if Agnes is feeling anything like bereavement, she doesn’t show it. She perks up as per usual, running off to the back room.

Lenore sighs, and turns back to the boy. He’s got his head bowed again, almost like he knows what’s coming. Poor thing.

“Sweetheart,” She places a hand on his shoulder. “Want me to tend to any other wounds?”

Cor sits very still, but his hands still have that jitteriness. Slowly, he nods.

“Ok.” Lenore eases herself down into the chair opposite him. “Just go on and lift your shirt a bit, son.”

He does. And Lenore’s heart breaks a bit more.

Cor pulls a bit of the fabric of his t-shirt up, revealing a display of raw, red patched skin. From what Lenore can tell, they’re concentrated around certain areas, and underneath she can see lines of scar tissue, angry raised bumps, holes that had torn through his flesh. She has to swallow forcefully.

“Ok, dear. It’s alright now.” She coats a cloth with some water, bracing. “Just let me clean out some of these scrapes.”

Cor flinches. His whole body jerks and he pulls his shirt back down, arms wrapping around his torso again.

“No, no. It’s ok sweetheart.” Lenore doesn’t mask the sympathy in her voice. “Just let me have a look, and I’ll fix you right up, alright?”

The boy makes a noise. Like a low keening sound. His breathing’s picked up and he won’t look in her direction. But slowly, he unravels. And she can see him clench his jaw hard before tugging up his t-shirt once more.

Lenore’s known that Cor Leonis has made quite a name for himself. A prowess that speaks of a figure unmatched on the battlefield. Young and courageous. A sign of hope for the people of Lucis. But this-

A body ravaged by war, by violence. Even self-inflicted. This is so very _wrong_ that Lenore has a hard time keeping her hands steady.

Even still, she manages.

The hard, muscled form of a young man who’d nearly broken from the weight of it all- he shakes in his seat as she rubs the soothing slave over the worst of his rash. Making tiny, choked noises of protest. She persists. And once she’s finished, she pulls his shirt back down and stands next to him, placing a warm hand on his neck just to hold him still, just to say _I’m here, I see your pain, and I’ll help you_.

Agnes returns soon enough. And Lenore’s glad she’d been shielded from the sight of that. Her young granddaughter thrusts a thick knitted sweater into Cor’s hands (one Lenore had knitted for her son, some long time ago. She knows the mark of loss, of pain, it’s stitched into her skin the way that it’s stitched into Cor’s.) It’s one of Agnes’s father’s things and the way she holds it out to Cor so unflinching just tugs at something so deep inside Lenore she almost stumbles.

(Agnes is like that; she never seems to show any sign of grief, she might just cover it up with all the noise and enthusiasm and laughter. Lenore won’t hold it against her.)

“You can wear this too. It’s really warm and cozy.” Agnes is holding another item out to the boy. Her pink and purple fuzzy bathrobe. Her favorite.

Cor just stares down at it, down at the girl. Tentatively, he reaches out a hand and rubs at the fabric. It’s such a quiet moment, such a fragile exchange.

Lenore feels she needs to step back, give the boy some space. She’s already feeling a bit sensitive herself.

But as she moves to step away into the kitchen, something happens-

The boy reaches out.

He grabs her hand.

It’s silent as she looks down at him. Cor’s head is bowed again, eyes dark. But he’s holding her hand, he’s holding onto her.

( _Help me_ , is what he might say, if he still had a voice.)

And ever so slightly, he pulls her closer. And Lenore moves back next to him. She can see his shoulders are shaking a little, but his grip is firm, solid. He squeezes her hand.

So she wraps her other arm around him. And she feels him shudder harder.

There’s quiet, suffocated noises. Lenore feels the boy respond, leaning into her embrace.

Agnes is looking at Cor with a strained expression, mouth open.

The boy just makes more low sounds. Stifled sobs. And he digs his face into Lenore’s shoulder and she feels tears leak through to her shirt.

There’s another startled sound, as Agnes’s face contorts around her stirring confusion. In an act of second-hand emotion, the girl begins to cry, tears flowing freely even as her face maintains its shock.

With that, Cor shifts in a rapid swing of his arm and he grabs the girl next to him, pulling her in closer, and now it’s the three of them holding each other. Agnes bawls louder, and Lenore can see her shove her whole face into Cor’s arm. The boy’s breath hitches and he produces another terrible, heart-breaking sound. Lenore leans in, rubbing the back of his head gently.

“Shhhhh.” She strokes his hair and he just shakes harder.

Agnes’s ugly sobbed words come out all garbled but Lenore can make out “I don’t have to go back to school gramma, do I?” and she shakes her head, but the child still sobs. The elderly woman can see Cor hold her tightly, trying to calm her down as Lenore is doing for him. There’s more broken sounds from the back of the boy’s throat, so Lenore just holds him tighter too.

She holds him, brushing his hair, giving him warmth. And he holds her hand.

He doesn’t let go for a long time.

-

Later the boy has a shower and he comes back wearing the sweater and the pink robe, which is decidedly too small for him, but hell, it’ll keep him warm. He looks so very tired, but he still lets Agnes prattle and dance around him, tugging at his arms, whispering secrets in his ears.

“Aggy darling, I think Cor might need a rest.”

So he does. Lenore sets up a nice comfy spot for him on the couch, piling several warm blankets on top of him. Cor’s exhaustion hangs over him so fiercely that the second Lenore sets the final blanket, she sees him slacken like a weight the size of Insomnia has just been lifted off his body.

She lets him sleep.

Agnes doesn’t seem to mind that her friend is now comatose. She sits next to him on the floor, sorting through the pages of the script for that play she keeps gibbering about. Lenore can see her marking notes in the margins, always with glances to the sleeping boy next to her.

It’s a delicate thing. And Lenore finds herself alone in the kitchen, preparing a meal, her mind still caught up in some kind of emotion.

At some point there’s a persistent buzzing sound. It’s something Lenore can’t quite place. But eventually she’s lead to the pile of clothes Cor left on the side table and she searches to find a cellphone from the pocket of his tattered jeans.

She really doesn’t like prying (all things aside). But the phone beeps again and she sees that there are several missed messages. She puts it down on the counter. It’s not her business. And whatever business it is of the boy’s, it can surely wait. Heavens know he had enough on his plate already.

Later in the day Agnes makes a run to the mini-mart for some _important thing!_ and Lenore doesn’t even question it. She moves to the couch, deciding that rousing the boy for a hearty meal would be more beneficial than letting him sleep.

As she shakes his shoulder it takes more than a minute to wake him. And when he does, he tucks his face into the cushion, bleary-eyed, before coughing roughly into the pillow. “You alright, dear? Think you’re up for some supper in a bit?” 

The boy's got a glazed look in his eyes, confused. His hair is all in disarray and he looks even younger, Lenore thinks.

But he nods, then inches his body up, still wrapped in blankets.

“You’re welcome to stay, honey. As long as you like.”

Cor blinks intensely. Then he nods again.

Agnes returns in a flurry of activity and when she see Cor’s awake she hollers loudly.

“Aggy, please!”

“Sorry, gramma! But Mr. Cor! Now that you’re awake you can watch me do my lines!” She scrambles on the floor gathering script pages. “There’s a bit with a fight scene, where I hafta pretend to sword-fight with this dude and it’s gonna be really cool, an’ I thought you could show me some stuff-”

“Agnes, settle down now.”

“Yeah, yeah! Anyway, Mr. Cor you hafta come see me do my play! It’s gonna be on Founder’s Day, which is still a few months away, y’know, but anyway-”

Lenore can see that Cor does his best to at least pretend to be paying attention. The heavy lethargy seems to linger though. At least Agnes is enough of a distraction that she thinks the boy might actually be making progress.

After dinner, the girl approaches Cor with almost a cautious modesty. They’re sitting at the kitchen table, cleared of all plates. Agnes had given Cor the pad of sticky notes, “Y’know, in case you wanna say somethin’. I know gramma’s lasagna is dry, so I wouldn’t blame you for any complaints!” (Cheeky kid). Cor had been occasionally writing notes to the girl’s queries, opening up a bit, but as Agnes places something in front of him now, the boy seems to fall into that blank state again.

“I… I gotcha that. Cuz I know you like them.” Agnes sounds uncharacteristically hesitant.

Lenore peers over and can see that she’d given Cor a candy bar. _Chuckle Crunch_. The boy picks it up slowly. Agnes has a bar for herself too, and she begins unwrapping it, nodding to him.

“Yeah, this kind is real good! You got good taste!”

Cor’s hands shake a bit as he unwraps his. He pauses for a few seconds looking at the wrapper.

“Ah, cool! Did you get a good sticker too?” Agnes procures a piece of sticker paper from under the wrapper. There’s a bright little face on it.

Cor reveals his sticker as well, holding it in his hands. Then he peels the thing off ever so slowly. Gently.

And he sticks it onto Agnes’s forehead.

The girl looks startled, but there’s a sly grin cracking her features. She’s quick to retaliate, slapping her sticker straight onto Cor’s forehead too.

The boy almost chuckles. Lenore can only tell because she sees the way his shoulders move.

Agnes is tilting her head from side-to-side, seemingly thrilled to have been worthy enough of a sticker to the head. She hums delightedly. Then takes a big bite of the chocolate, grin widening. “Mmmn. That’s the good shit.”

“Aggy!”

Apparently unaware of Lenore’s watching, the girl makes a “gaahh!” sound and keeps enjoying her candy bar. Cor looks over too, the sticker on his forehead some silly looking face, eyes still a bit hooded. He slightly nods at her, then takes a small bite of the chocolate.

Later, Lenore helps him back to the couch. It’s clear the boy is still laden with unchecked exhaustion and whatever else is still rattling up his mind that he can only cope with muteness. Lenore won’t judge.

But as she lays him down on the couch, another coughing fit has her worried for more than just his mental state.

“Easy, dear. Just go on and rest.” She smooths the hair off his forehead and, gods, the boy looks so young. Only twenty-one, carrying all those scars. He looks more peaceful in sleep at least.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Agnes comes out of the bathroom wearing pajamas. She has a deep serious look that doesn’t sit right on her small features.

Lenore sighs. “In due time, dear.”

Agnes nods, then shuffles forward. Cor’s already passed out on the couch, still wearing that pink robe, still with the silly sticker on his head. With the boy’s height, he can’t quite fit on the couch, but he’s curled up and looks comfortable at least. Agnes leaves a stack of sticky notes and a pen on the side table next to him. “Just in case,” she says, then adjusts the blankets around the boy before heading to her room.

Lenore goes about cleaning up the kitchen. She sees the candy wrappers and smiles sadly. The steady sound of Cor breathing settles like a low lullaby over the apartment. Picking up some of the discarded pink sticky notes, Lenore pauses. There’s one in Agnes’s signature scrawl that has her stopping, clutching her heart for a few minutes.

_I lost my parents a while ago. Sometimes I don’t know how to talk about it either._

Lenore sits at the table for a little while. In the dark. Listening to the boy breathe. 

Before turning in, she checks on Cor one last time. Brushes the hair off his forehead, taking off the sticker and transferring it to a sticky note. He feels too warm. And she can already see signs of illness taking hold.

Poor boy.

She’d take care of him as best she can though. It’s what grandmothers are for.

And maybe he’d never really heal from the atrocities wrought on his body. But she’d hold his hand if he reached out for it.

-

The next day, Cor sleeps for a long time.

When Agnes had to hurry of to school, she’d left him with a couple of stuffed animals, tucked into his arms, but he didn’t stir.

And as Lenore sets about doing her daily tasks, she can’t help but notice every time the boy elicits a moan, or a soft cry. And the coughing. That she can’t ignore.

Not even fully conscious, Cor gets caught up in a violent coughing fit that lasts several minutes. When he’s done, he just slumps back into the cushions.

“Let’s get you up, nice and easy now.” Lenore has to use most of her feeble strength to get the boy into standing. Cor practically collapses as she half-drags him to the bathroom.

“Shhh. Ok now.” She lets him down back to the couch, then returns with a hot cup of broth.

Cor coughs darkly into his arm, eyes glassy. He still hasn’t said a word, sleeping well into the afternoon.

“C’mon, honey, let’s get you something for your throat, yeah?”

He struggles swallowing the medicine she gives and in less than a minute, he’s unconscious again, falling back into the blankets.

Lenore sighs deeply, running a hand over her weary head.

He stays the night again, barely waking at all when Agnes had returned; the girl with visible worry bleeding all over her face. She had sat with the boy, telling him about her day, about all the kids at school who still don’t believe her when she says that they’re friends. Cor had just coughed, propped up against the couch, clutching some penguin stuffed animal.

It’s the third day and Lenore isn’t quite sure what to do.

The Leonis boy hadn't even roused when she'd went to check on him, caught up in throes of lethargy and fever. 

In the end, it’s that sporadic beeping that offers her a solution.

Having decided that the boy’s privacy was far outweighed by his own safety, Lenore picks up the phone as it rings for a fourth time that day. Not just a message. An actual call.

She only feels a tiny bit guilty as she answers it. “Hello?”

“He- who is this?” A deep voice on the other end. “Where’s Leonis?”

“He’s indisposed at the moment. I’m sorry for interfering-”

“Ma’am. This is Cor Leonis’s phone. What are you doing with it?” The voice sounds angrier.

“I know that, dear. And Cor’s here, just sleeping. I’m afraid I couldn’t wake him up enough to have him take your call.”

“Who is this?”

“I’m a friend, dear. Just someone offerin’ him a helping hand.”

“What…? Is Cor ok?” This time the voice sounds strained.

“It’s a bit hard to tell at the moment…”

Lenore isn’t sure, but this gentlemen sounds like he’s close to Cor personally. So she reveals that he’s been stricken with illness, that she’d found him in such a sorry state and that it’s clear the boy has a lot going on.

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end. “I’m on my way.”

Lenore opens the door and sees a very well-built man she knows is the King’s Shield. He holds himself very carefully, she thinks. A kind of leveled maturity, with just a hint of softness easing his stern features. And the way he bows at her politely before entering, Lenore can tell he’s a chief in discipline.

So when he all but breaks apart at the sight of Cor laying on the couch, she’s taken aback.

Bringing his hands up, scraping them over his buzzed hair, the Shield paces in a circle, muttering to himself.

Finally he turns to her enough to say “Is he… fuck, is he alright?”

Lenore levels him with an honest look. “I’m not quite sure he is.”

Clarus nods roughly, then runs his hands over his whole face, groaning. He moves closer to the couch, then paces again, still muttering.

Lenore feels like an outsider, so she just sits at the kitchen table, watching this hulk of a man fail terribly at distinguishing his emotions.

“Gods, Cor…” He sits himself on the small amount of space left on the couch next to Cor’s body. “What did you do to yourself this time, kid?”

Lenore watches him place a steady hand on the boy’s shoulder. Cor makes a pitiful moan in response.

“Hey, wake up, kid.” Clarus shakes him slightly. But Cor only returns with a throaty cough. “C’mon.”

The Shield nudges him enough to get Cor on his back, then he takes a surprisingly tender hand and lays it on the boy’s forehead.

“Shit. He’s burning up.” He turns to look at Lenore. “Have you given him anything?”

“Just a few remedies for the cough that didn’t seem to help. Fever’s just started gettin’ worse. He’s… he hasn’t spoken at all, it’s a little hard to tell how he’s feelin’…”

The Shield covers his face again with his hands, whispering another sympathetic “ _Shit_ ”.

Still feeling like an intruder, Lenore looks away as the Shield attempts to gather up his personal issues, struggling with something that Lenore has no idea about. She can make out a few things though. A ‘ _damn Cor, what a fucking mess’_ , and an even gentler ‘ _shit, you really look like a kid again when you’re sleeping’._

In the end, the Shield offers to take Cor off Lenore’s hands and she’s conflicted to admit that she’s sad to see the boy go, but not so much when she sees Clarus literally haul the boy off the couch and lift him into his arms. Yes, maybe he’d be in better hands after all.

“It’s ok Cor, I gotcha.” Clarus falls back into that softness. It suits him better, Lenore thinks. “Thank you ma’am. For taking care of this one.”

Lenore nods sadly, placing a hand on Cor’s half-conscious arm. “He’s a good neighbor.”

Clarus snorts, adjusting his hold on the boy and nodding as well.

Lenore feels something deep inside her kindle as she watches them leave. The boy safe in the arms of a friend. The muttered ‘ _what the hell are you wearing, kid_ ’ followed by a heavy sigh.

She’s sure that it might take a long time for Cor to heal. But he’d reached out to her.

When he was lost, empty, broken…

He reached out.

And she’d have given him comfort even if he hadn’t.

It’s what grandmothers are for.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some heavy themes in this one guys, just a warning*

He feels weightless. Drifting into an empty space, but grounded by… something. Something that’s keeping him from slipping away into that boundless expanse.

And he’s warm.

Very warm.

Cor doesn’t know where he is but he feels safe.

At least for a little while.

Soft hushing sounds, a gentle touch to his neck, his forehead. He’s being lifted again.

“C’mon, kid, let’s get you warmed up.”

 _I am warm_ , he wants to tell the voice. He’s very, very warm; almost to the point where it feels like a tangible thing, a layer of heat closing in on him.

His voice is lost though. But it’s ok. He’s carried, and he’s weightless and then he’s laying down again.

The warmth doesn’t lessen. Cor shifts and he realizes he’s covered in blankets, but there’s something else- a cloying, encroaching body of heat that begins to permeate his skin, all over.

He’s too warm.

He wants to call out to that voice, but he can’t. His throat is being filled with broken glass. Like shards of cruelty, he can’t even choke out a cough without feeling a terrible splintering agony.

“Fuck, kid. Just try and get some rest. We’ll see about getting you something for that cough, yeah?”

The voice is so far away. Outside the barrier of heat that’s got Cor trapped. He hears more sounds, more voices from the other side but he can’t hold on to them.

“… don’t know… said she found him like that… worried about the fever… have to call the doc if it gets worse… yeah, I know… I know…"

Cor forces out another brutal cough and then the weight starts to push down on him, but this one just drags him under. A great, dark, covetous thing. And he’s already asleep before he can put up a fight.

-

When he was thirteen he saw a dead man for the first time. When he was fourteen he killed one himself.

Then many, many more.

If his hands could write the horrors wrought by them, Cor thinks the pages wouldn’t hold up under the stain of crimson. But he’s never been good with words to begin with.

Wracked by narcosis and fever, Cor finds himself reflecting on things he’d once thought buried too deep to dig out again.

Like what it smelled like when he had to crawl over the shattered body of a comrade to get to a better vantage point; turns out when your body gets impacted by an artillery shell that’s exploded three feet from you, your insides tend to burst open, guts and innards and stomach contents littering the ground around you like some ungodly wreath. As it was, Cor could only hold his breath for so long, and the sights and smells of Ensign Pollack’s ruptured stomach made the boy vomit in his mouth every time the mess hall served spaghetti since.

Or what it tasted like to wake up in a sun-bleached canvas, shithole med tent in Galahd; there were these fingernail sized swamp flies that Cor wouldn’t go a day without waking up with at least two in his mouth (word was, they were attracted to human sweat). That combined with the gritty clay that coated like a film over his teeth had Cor gagging every morning. The worst days were the ones where he actually took a moment to savor the crunch of the flies between his teeth (gods new Lucis was hard-pressed for supplies, and hell if Cor wasn’t actually missing that spaghetti now).

Or how it felt to shake hands with King Mors, after they lost the war; the man had peered at Cor with eyes like sharp-cut gems, beady like. Cor remembers wiping his palm on his military dress pants the few seconds before the King approached, gods he was sweating. But Mors’ hands felt like wax paper; eerie, delicate things. So dusted by age that Cor found himself tracing the lines of the man’s veins as if his skin was translucent. _Your country thanks you, soldier_ is what he said. His mouth a small, pinched line, barely moving. Cor nodded. And he didn’t smile.

He digs and digs, deeper under all the filth.

He’s so very hot.

And all of the dirt is in his mouth, choking, clogging. He coughs and coughs and coughs. His throat is red-hot. 

_“C’mon buddy, I need you to breathe. Del, call Doctor Ludra-”_

Hands on his body, on his face. He’s so hot. He’s on fire.

_“Jared, help me lift him, would you? That’s it. C’mon Cor, you gotta drink some of this-”_

Something slips into his mouth and he sputters, choking. He can’t breathe. It’s like gunfire ripping up his lungs. All he can do is cough and cough and cough.

_“Cor. Breathe.”_

-

When he was eleven someone told him he could sell his body for money, for food. When he was twelve he found out there was more than one way to do that. 

Belly aching with hunger, ma going off her meds again- when that letter came for A. Leonis, that military recruitment package sent to their address, all Cor saw was a paycheck. And he took it.

What is a soldier if not a body to be bent and broken into whatever shape the cruel hands of war see fit? Cor would twist into whatever poster-boy they wanted, just to get out of the tragedy that was his home life.

Cor remembers hearing his mother screaming and cursing about how the manager had to let her go from her job. How she threw a glass plate across the room, nearly taking out Cor’s eyeball with a shard that shattered across the wall. _He was right to! You’re fucking crazy!_ he remembers screaming back at her, the tell-tale signs of his anger just a newborn, greedy, impulsive thing. But already a fire to fill the empty space in his chest. _You ungrateful brat! I’ve given you everything, and what do I get? Nothing!_ Cor remembers storming off into the bathroom, fists thrashing against the tiled walls. He remembers taking his mother’s pills out of the medicine cabinet, imagining what it would feel like to swallow them all, if it’d make his mind all fucked like hers. If it’d make everything feel better. Fill his belly with something at least.

He remembers stepping off that army bus, his standard issue fatigues stretched a bit too short over his growing frame (he’d grown half a foot during his time on the frontline; being bent and broken didn’t stop him from maturing it seemed). And all the other soldiers had gone on and rushed into the arms of family, loved ones. Cor remembers hanging back. He remembers looking into the crowd and hoping she wouldn’t be there. He remembers not wanting anyone to see her. The feeling of shame. Embarrassment. And when he finally spotted her, he walked with the same steps he took when he walked onto battlefields, into fire-fights with no chance of winning. And he remembers the look on her face; a scowl. Like his. And how a buddy had clapped him on the back saying _ahh, Mrs. Leonis, you raised one hell of a soldier_ , and how she just stood there, eyebrows drawn in a tight frown, muttering _I don’t know you_. Cor kept his mouth closed; only partly because it was wired shut; jaw broken and mutilated. He took her by the arm, desperate to leave. To go home; if there was even such a place. And he remembers having to drag her to the train platform, by this point she was screaming _I don’t know you! I don’t know you._ He kept his mouth shut.

Cor remembers holding that silver necklace of hers in his hands, a year after his dad left. The heart-shaped one. His namesake. He remembers selling it to a pawn shop so they’d have enough food for the next month, if that. He remembers how he’d begged the store owner to take it for at least fifty, and how the guy looked at him with such a disgusting, unkind sneer, saying _you’re shitting me kid, this isn’t worth twenty. Look at the coat on this, fucking cheap fake silver_. And Cor felt burning, boiling anger. Anger at the shop owner. Anger at his father for trying to pass off some cheap piece of shit. Anger at his stupid fucking mom for being dumb enough to fall for it. And anger at himself when he sold it for twenty. He remembers the sweaty, greasy hands of the guy taking it from him. How he gave Cor such a filthy smile, a hand on his shoulder, then on his waist. How he leaned in and said _hmph, pretty boy like you, you’d have better luck sellin’ your body than these shitty trinkets_. And Cor just stood there. And his skin crawled. And he felt so very dirty. Even when he’d gotten home and stood in the shower for forty-five minutes with his clothes still on. And maybe it took a while for him to really get what the guy meant. He was stupid. Naïve.

So when he’d signed up for the Crownsguard at age twelve, he figured his body didn’t really mean much to him anyway.

“How long has the fever lasted?” A stranger’s voice from so far away.

“Don’t know, at least a day.”

Hands on his head, hands pulling him up.

“Alright, open up for me now, son.”

Hands on his face, hands nudging his mouth open.

_Screaming, screaming, tiny hands, electric-hot, hands burning through his skin…_

Cor hears a sound like “Mnnaaghh…”, and he thinks it comes from his own throat.

_There are hands throttling his neck, tiny hands, shoving his head down into the dirt. Dirt in his eyes, dirt in his nose, his mouth. He wants to scream. He can’t breathe._

“Easy does it. Try and take a deep breath for me.”

A cold thing touches his chest, under his shirt. He wriggles. He can’t breathe.

_It’s hot, so hot. He’s swallowing dirt and ash and charred flesh and he coughs and coughs, but he can’t get it out._

Deep, rasping coughing sounds- even they sound far away- but he’s sure they’re from his own chest. There’s a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing circles. It feels like a hot poker cooking his body from the outside, straight through to his head, to his flayed throat. 

“I need you to swallow these, son.”

Hands pushing into his mouth, then- _choking, strangling, coughing_.

“Easy.” A stranger’s voice, a stranger’s hands.

_Filthy, greasy hands, stroking his waist. His own hands scratching at his naked chest. Waxy, frail hands. Cold so cold. Blue veins like lightning bolts cutting through into his skin._

“Cor. C’mon kid. Just breathe.” He knows this voice, he knows its hands are warm. But he’s hot, so hot. “Doc, I don’t know what to do. He’s delirious.”

“Right now, we have to just wait for the fever to subside. The meds should help, but keep a cold cloth on his head. I’ll leave you with an oxygen concentrator, it seems he’s having a bit of difficulty getting in air. Let me just take a blood test, then we can-”

Cor slips under a sheet of fatigue. He can hear garbled sounds of voices, he can feel them turning him, touching him. His body is all he has; but he’d let them bend and break him. He’s a soldier, after all.

There’s more hands. More voices. A sharp prick in his arm. His limbs feel so heavy. And a bone-deep ache spreads over his form like a treacherous lullaby, pulling him under again.

-

The black dreams come this time. With teeth. And sharp claws.

Cor doesn’t remember a time when his subconscious wasn’t determined to disembowel him with its own brand of torture; turns out memories are more potent than nightmares.

He hears sounds of gurgling- the horrific splash of wetness splattering the bed of the transport vehicle; Corporal Selix had caught a bullet through his neck, and Cor knows he doesn’t have enough willpower with his teenage hands to stop the gaping hole from closing, no. So he just listens as the blood spews forth from the man’s mouth like a busted faucet and he holds his hand on the guy’s neck til he stops moving, til the noises just stop. But his hand takes a few hours to gain feeling in it again.

He closes his eyes as Clarus shoves his kneecap back into place. He doesn’t want to see. But he can feel it. Gods, he can feel the bones misalign and grate against each other like tectonic plates. And when Cid grabs his shoulders, pushing him hard on his back to _stay still_ , he feels his entire existence snap with the sound of his patella being pushed back into its socket, leg bones shifting and scraping, blood dripping down to his ankles. And he screams. He screams, shrieking and scrabbling in the dirt. Grinding his tailbone against hard rocks. He screams until he passes out.

He tastes the noxious, corrosive scent of an MT being slaughtered- whatever passes for its blood spills out of the cracks in their armor, an overwhelming miasma that smells like burnt hair and battery-acid. Cor remembers how it sticks at the back of his throat, how no amount of water or cigarettes bummed from the other soldiers in the barracks could ever seem to make the taste go away. He swears it makes his teeth itch.

He feels biting, sticky irritation up and down his left leg. He lays in a sweat-soaked cot, the thick humidity of the jungle entangling him like a disease. He’d been laying on this bed for six days, and at some point he’d pissed himself, not able to move, not able to call out for assistance. And now he can feel the filthy griminess as it rubs against his skin, his pant leg soaked through. He thinks there might be a rash, but he can’t move. He can’t speak. And he doesn’t’ want to. So he lays there. Silent. It takes them three more days to get him a new pair of pants.

Cor drowns. 

And hands pull him deeper. It’s darker, more dangerous.

He feels hands on his face, tilting it into the shitty fluorescent lights of the bathroom. His lip trembles as the hand wipes away a trail of blood down his chin. _Damn, boy, you’re givin’ me a run for my money, I’d say_. His father pats his head and there’s something like _pride_ in his features. Cor’s got a fat lip and some bruises around his eye-sockets, but it’s the scrapes on his knuckles his daddy tends to most carefully. Pulling him closer, rearranging the grip of Cor’s tiny fist _. See, ya gotta hold ‘em like this, or else you might go and smash your thumb in and break it, yeah?_ He nods. And he gets another pat to the head. _You’re tough, kid._ He knows he shouldn’t fight, but sometimes it’s worth it, just to hear his dad say that he’s tough. He likes it.

He wiggles his toes under the blankets, leaning into the warmth next to him. Sometimes if his parents fought, his dad would come out and lay with him. They’d lay side by side, and Cor would wake up with an arm around his shoulder. He would always feel so small. But he likes being close.

Even when his dad hits him. Yelling about how he’d made a huge fucking mess of the tv-set when he’d tried rearranging the cables to see if they’d get better channels. The _look at me boy_ that sends shivers down his tiny body. He sits there getting smacks to his cheeks, feeling them burn with shame. And he folds his fists into the shape his daddy told him about. He would never hit back. No. But seeing that look of pride- the one his father wears every time he comes back after some nasty scrap with the neighborhood kids- he reckons it might be the best feeling in the world. So he really doesn’t even mind if his dad knocks him around. Just means he’s tough. Yeah. He’s tough.

The darkness smothers him. Cor can’t even feel his body anymore. He’s lost. Abandoned.

_I guess I wasn’t worth it._

He hears it echo in every step he takes. Walking up and down the block that December morning. He’d thought that his dad might’ve slipped out early, sometimes he did that, to get the paper or a smoke (the saddest thing is Cor’d held onto a tiny hope that maybe his dad went to pick him up something. A treat for his birthday). The thought makes his eyes burn. And each step is another nail in the coffin. Another ice pick to his heart. So by the time he’s wandered back home he’s pretty sure he’d left a bloody trail from where he’d wrenched out his heart and left it on some shitty street corner in Jejun.

_You were never worth it._

He hears it on the battlefield too. Every time he’s too late to shout out a warning. When he watches an entire unit get eviscerated by another bomb blast. When he knows he can only survive by running away. Useless. Worthless. _That Leonis kid is immortal_ , they all would say. _Yeah, cuz I heard he only cares about saving his own hide_. Cor wraps himself up with his threadbare blanket, eyes shut, curled into the tiniest version of himself. Trying to drown out the voices of the other soldiers. _He’s tough I’ll give him that_.

He hears it straight from the mouth of the blademaster. _You think yourself worthy? You are far from it_. Cor stands his ground, but that echo cuts through him worse than any of Gilgamesh’s blades. And he runs. He has to. There’s a burst in his leg and when he looks down, there’s a sword pierced straight through, but he turns, he carries the momentum enough to slash at the arm of his opponent. And he runs. He doesn’t even hear the limb hit the ground. He hears _you’re not worth anything_. And even though his leg is near split in half, he runs. Because he only cares about himself. Because he’s tough.

Because caring hurts.

 _Caring_ is what he’s most afraid of, he thinks.

It feels like: every time he caught a rare smile from Regis, tossed in his direction. Or every time Wes would seek him out when he was on guard duty, chocolate milk in hand. It feels like Clarus’s oversized sweatshirt, and the way the older man helped tug it over teenage shoulders; the look in his eyes wasn’t quite like _pride_ , but it still made Cor lean into it. 

It feels like a twist under his ribcage, a sign of life where there should be none.

And in Cor’s throes of delirium, those feelings contort and mutate into false, grotesque things.

He’s pulled under by the ankles into black, dark dementia, and everything becomes _wrong_.

Regis’s smile curls downwards and blood spills from his blue-tinged lips.

Hands, tiny hands, grip his face, his neck, his body.

Weskham’s lying in that hospital bed in Altissia, so very still and cold. And this time he doesn’t wake up.

Clarus throttles Cor against the side of his car, screaming, screaming.

Little child-sized fingers grope at his navel, clawing at his skin. No. no.

Cid’s looking down at him with a grimace and a voice that isn’t even his issues out _I would’ve left you too._

The face of his father, the night before his birthday. The _see ya in the morning buddy_ that turns into a single siren sound. 

His mother’s dead, empty face. She doesn’t turn to look at him, she’s staring at a tv screen that’s just static. He calls out to her, but she doesn’t move. She just points to her side drawer.

Dirt, all caught in his hair, under his fingernails, in his windpipe.

Cor moves towards the drawer. He opens it and digs through it. Digging, digging.

There’s dirt all around. Dirt that spills out of the drawer and covers him up. So he turns back around. And he covers them too.

The bodies of the children. The bodies in the jungle.

Broken and lost and _abandoned_.

He emits a voiceless scream when one of them moves. A twitch of the hand. He just covers it with dirt.

Covering. Hiding. Abandoning them forever.

He covers them all and he doesn’t look. Not at the faces. Even though the last one has a mop of red curls.

 _No_. She isn’t there.

He covers her.

He covers them all.

And he sits in the dirt.

And he looks at his hands.

They’re stained red.

And he screams, but doesn’t make a sound.

His hands that choked the life out of a man when he was just fourteen. Hands that weren’t strong enough to stop his comrades from bleeding out. Hands that felt shaky under the cold handshake of his King. Hands that, even now, curl into that perfect fist; extending all four fingers and tightly holding them together, thumb out.

But he doesn’t fight back.

He takes it all.

Because he’s not worth it.

-

He wakes up at some point.

Even though his thoughts are still muddled, Cor knows that he’s awake.

And he can hear a long sigh at his side, so he knows he’s not alone.

“Hey.” It sounds slightly hushed, tired. Cor doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

He digs his head deeper into the pillow though, turning his head away from the voice.

“Hey, you awake, kiddo?”

He just tries to shove his face further into the pillow, but finds that he can’t. There’s something strapped to his face, preventing him from moving. He brings up a hand that feels too heavy- his whole body aches something terrible- and he attempts to pull the damn thing off his mouth.

“Don’t-” There’s a grip on his arm. Warm, clammy hands. “Gods’ sakes Cor, just leave it.”

He doesn’t want to leave it. His face feels suffocated, claustrophobic. So he wrenches it off, and he breathes. Then coughs wetly into the pillow. But he breathes.

Another heavy sigh, and the hands retract. “Think you’re ok to breathe without it, kid?”

Cor doesn’t remember having an oxygen mask shoved over his mouth, but he does think that his lungs are working a bit better now. He doesn’t bother nodding. He just turns over on his side.

“Guess you still don’t want to look at me then?”

Rustling the blankets closer, Cor doesn’t react.

“That’s fair.”

Sabotaging his attempt at remaining aloof, his form gets beset by a round of coughing. He tucks inward, rubbing at his sore throat with achy hands. It takes him a few minutes to settle down again and by this point he’s on his back, face towards the ceiling.

He can almost see Clarus’s creased forehead wrinkles from the corner of his eyes.

The older man is sitting on a chair next to the bed. And now that Cor has more wits about him, he can recognize the room he’s in. One of the Amicitia’s guest bedrooms. He’d spent a few obligated nights here after some overloaded work days.

Clarus sighs again. He looks at Cor, and from his half-turned vantage point, the man looks back.

“You look terrible.”

Cor almost snorts. And something like a smile sneaks through Clarus’s concern. The older man nods at something on the bedside table.

“That neighbor of yours asked me to pick that up for you. Some chicken soup. I have to say, having sampled it, that lady is a godsend.”

There’s a stirring in his chest that makes Cor feel almost like a kid again. He’d have a hard time coming up with the right words to ever express to Mrs. Blazek his gratitude. 

Clarus frowns slightly. “I uh… I didn’t know you were close to anyone like that. It’s… surprising. And a little shitty on my part to see you… turning to them for help. But uh… I’m glad you have someone. I… gods… you’ve been… shit, you’ve been really scaring me, Cor.” 

His face darkens once more. Bringing his head down into steepled hands, the older man gives him a look that makes the frown lines deepen, and he mutters quietly, “Gods, you’ll be the death of me, kid.”

Cor doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t look away.

“You have pneumonia. Pretty bad too.”

Oh. So that would explain why he feels like complete shit. 

There’s another deep sigh. Clarus mumbles something under his breath. Feeling bone-tired, Cor tries to stretch out his legs but they feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each. He just settles deeper into the blankets.

“Had to get the Doc in. Have a look at you. He said you might need help breathing.”

He gestures to the oxygen tank, then shakes his head.

“If I ever catch you smoking again, I’ll beat your ass.”

Cor just blinks.

“I think your fever’s finally broken, thank the gods. Fuck… you had me worried sick.”

An errant cough comes through and Cor hacks through it pitifully. Clarus shifts. He’s leaning towards him now, a hesitant hand ready to stabilize him. 

“You ok?”

Again, Cor doesn’t respond.

“Still not talking, huh?” Clarus pulls back. “That’s ok. It’s…” A thick pause. “You’ll be ok.”

Cor brings a shaky hand up to his face, dragging it up and down his grimy, sweaty skin. He feels awful.

“Listen, kid…”

There’s a moment where Cor just looks at the older man’s face and watches it warp around several emotions all at once. Clarus had always been just as stubborn as he was. It always made it hard when they had to work through whatever bullshit got to them. Cor doesn’t blame him though.

“Listen. I just want to let you know how sorry I am. I’m… gods, we’ve both been pretty stupid, huh?”

There’s a sad little laugh. Clarus hides his face behind his hands a few times, but he levels Cor an honest look.

“I’m sorry, Cor.”

Cor nods cautiously. He swallows around the pain in his throat and maybe something else.

Clarus keeps going.

“I just want you to know that I should’ve been there for you. I never should’ve left you that day in your apartment all alone, after I’d seen the state you were in. Gods. I know things have been… difficult for you… and well, things have been difficult all around. But I’ve been a shitty friend.”

There’s an almost wounded-like sound coming from Clarus. He covers his face again briefly.

“I never should’ve hit you, Cor. I want you to know that. I was… I was angry, I was confused, and hell, maybe some of it was justified. But I _never_ should’ve hit you.”

Cor doesn’t know what to do, so he just nods again. His throat tenses. 

“You have no idea what it does to me, seeing you so beat up. You’re… you’re like my _brother_ , kid.” There’s a tight pause where he watches Clarus struggle around some deep, nameless thing. “I care about you, more than you probably know. And I’m here for you. Ok? I know I’ve been a complete ass to you, but, gods, will you forgive me?”

Cor blinks. He looks up at Clarus, at his friend. And he sees a man like himself. A man who’s carried a weight just like him. The worry lines like scars in their own right. Clarus is only thirty-one, but he carries himself like an ancient statue; a picture of strength and courage and valor, carved in eternal stone. But there are cracks through the marble. And Cor wants to rub them all away, but he knows that he can’t.

And even though he still can’t speak it aloud, he has to let him know.

So he reaches out his listless hand and he looks him in the eyes.

There’s a silent, fragile moment. Cor can feel his heart beating. 

And then- Clarus pulls him forward, grabbing him bodily and he just… holds him close. He holds him in his strong arms, cupping the back of his head so gently.

And Cor leans in.

And he breathes.

And it’s good.

“You still think I’m calm all the time?”

Cor snorts into his neck, soaking in the warmth and trying not to choke on it all. Even when Clarus’s shoulders shake.

Even when he pulls back, clammy hands stroking his sweaty face, and Clarus smiles, says “Gods, kid you need a bath.”

He just nods.

He doesn’t have the words yet.

And later, when Clarus has to physically haul him off his feet into the bathroom, he lets himself linger in his hold, savoring it. He likes being close.

There’s a moment where the two of them stand up, holding each other maybe, and Cor feels like he may actually be… worth something. If Clarus cares enough about him to hold him like this. If he can call him his _brother_ and mean it. If he says _I’m sorry, I never should’ve left, will you forgive me?_ and Cor thinks that, gods… _yes_ , he would. Because it sounds so different coming out of his mouth. So sincere. 

So when he gets to the bathroom and has to let him go, he grabs Clarus’s hand one last time. He still can’t find his voice. But he just holds his hand.

“I know, Corri.” Clarus makes a face that speaks not of _pride_ , but maybe something better. Cor doesn’t know what though. But he’s glad that Clarus understands him.

And when he pulls back and strips the shirt off his fever-sick body, he lets Clarus look. He lets him see the wreck of his skin.

The look on his friend’s face doesn’t change much. And that makes Cor feel something else. He still doesn’t quite know what.

It’s not pity. But Clarus stares at him and nods. “Ok. It’s gonna be ok, Cor.”

Cor stands there, feeling light-headed, looking down at himself. _Scared_.

“We’ll get you fixed up, kiddo. Don’t you worry.” Clarus smiles. “Now go on and shower. Or do you need me to hold your hand for that too?”

Cor shakes his head, snorting.

And maybe in the stream of water that falls on his skin, Cor holds his naked form close to the shower wall, and he thinks about what it might have been like had he not been bent and broken and twisted into this mutilated form. But for once, he’s very glad he’s not immortal. Or made of unyielding stone. Carved into a sculpture that could never feel warmth. His cracks may never be mended, but he can grow around them.

And when he gets out of the bathroom, there’s a pile of clothes for him by the bed.

The oversized sweatshirt that nearly drowns him is just enough of a testimonial to have him thinking, for the first time in a while, that _everything’s gonna be ok_. 


End file.
